Murder Song. Jon Cleary

back and by the time I got home Saturday, about six, she’d gone out.’

      Malone put down his empty cup, declined the offer of more coffee. Cappuccino and croissants on Monday morning in Paddington was okay for assistant recording producers and artists and ballet dancers, but not for working cops. ‘Could I have a look at her room?’

      Gina hesitated, then nodded. ‘I suppose you’ve got to. But it’s like intruding on her, isn’t it?’

      ‘It’s better intruding on the dead than on the living, but we don’t enjoy any of it.’

      She smiled, a painful one, and for a moment looked less plain. ‘Why do we call you pigs? Not all of you are.’

      She led him up the narrow stairs to a back bedroom that looked out on to the courtyard. The room looked as if it had been freshly painted, but it was a mess, a sanitized rubbish tip. The bed was unmade, clothes were strewn over the two chairs, the dressing-table looked like a wrecked corner of a beauty parlour. He began to suspect that Mardi Jack’s life might have been just as unkempt.

      ‘She took two showers a day,’ said Gina Cazelli, ‘but she hadn’t the faintest idea what a coat-hanger was for.’

      ‘You mind if I look through here on my own? You can trust me.’

      She looked around the room, sad and puzzled at what might be all that was left of her friend’s life; then abruptly she left him. Malone began the sort of search that always disturbed him, the turning over of a murder or suicide victim to see what was hidden beneath the body.

      The closet was packed tightly with clothes, all of them expensive and, by his taste, a bit way out. There were leather and sequins and eye-dazzling silks and taffetas; Malone wondered how the man who never left his name could have had a discreet affair with her. Then he found a black woollen coat and remembered the black fox one in the flat where she had been murdered. He wondered if the man had bought them for her, thrown them over her to hide her.

      He went through the drawers of the closet and the dressing-table. In the bottom drawer of the latter he found what a policeman always hopes for: the personal give-away that we always leave when we depart this life unexpectedly, the secret at last exposed to the light.

      It was a journal rather than a diary; there were no dates other than the year, 1989, in gold figures on the green cover. There were no names, only initials; it seemed, however, that Mardi Jack wrote only about the men in her life, it was an all-male world except for herself. It seemed, too, that she fell in love, genuine love, as other people, fumble-footed, fall into holes that more nimble-footed elements avoid. The men, it also seemed, walked away, leaving her floundering; she would be bitter for a time, then the next temptation would appear. Christ, thought Malone, what makes women such masochists? He had forgotten that Lisa had already given him the answer: love is both a form of possession and a form of masochism and women feel the latter more deeply than men. Men once wore hair shirts, but it was women who had woven them and tried them on first.

      The later entries spoke of B., ‘the love of my life’. He appeared sincere and gentle enough in the early days of their relationship – ‘He makes me feel as if I’m walking on clouds. All I want to do is sing love songs, happy ones. Get lost, Billie Holliday.’ Then the words and music started to change: ‘God, he is just like the rest of them. The second brushoff in a week.’ One could feel the anger in her pen; the writing was shaky. ‘No excuses. I just won’t be there tonight, he says. Jesus, why do I bother? Won’t I ever learn? Come back Billie Holliday, Edith Piaf, all you women who cry the blues! I know, boy do I know, what you mean!’

      Malone was embarrassed by the melodrama of her feelings, the banality of the entries; but she hadn’t been writing for him or anyone else, not even the man who had dumped her. He should not expect the laconic reporting style of a police running sheet.

      The last entry must have been written on Saturday just before she had gone out to her death; the writing seemed to quiver on the page: ‘I’m seeing B. tonight – I hope! We must have it out between us. Will this be our last meeting? Please God no! He says there is someone else … When I first met him all those years ago in London there was already someone else – ah, but he was a different man then and I wasn’t even a woman, just a different girl.’

      Malone closed the journal, continued his search, found nothing else that was helpful. He took the journal downstairs with him. ‘I’ll be taking this with me. I’ll sign for it. Did you ever see her writing in this?’

      Gina Cazelli shook her head; she sat at the kitchen table sipping a second cup of cappuccino or perhaps even a third. There was still the look of pain on her round face, almost like a bruise. ‘You find anything in it?’

      ‘Just a reference to someone called B. She never mentioned him?’

      ‘Never. But he was probably the guy she’s been seeing lately.’ She frowned, squeezing her memory. ‘I can’t remember any of the guys she brought home, none of their names started with a B. There was a Charlie and a Roger and a Raul – he was South American. They were all bums, fly-by-nights or in the morning, but she couldn’t see that and I never told her.’

      ‘Well, it’s too late to tell her now. I’ll send a police-woman out here to go through her things again. If you think of anything that might help, ring me.’ He dropped his card on the table. Then he said, as he might to Claire in five or six years’ time, ‘Be careful with your men, Gina.’

      She smiled wearily, wryly. ‘What men?’

      He left her then, went out to the Commodore; sure enough, there was another parking ticket stuck behind one of the wipers. There were also two splashes of bird-crap on the bonnet. Grey Bombers and their tickets were not universal; but birds were everywhere, always haunting him. If he took the Commodore to Antarctica, the penguins would be sure to leave their frozen mark on it.

      3

      Russ Clements was already back at Homicide waiting for him, cleaning out his murder box, a cardboard shoe box, of last week’s homicide and making room for this week’s bits and pieces that might add up to incriminating evidence. So far there was very little.

      ‘We went right through the apartment building, but came up with nothing. There’s only six permanent residents – the rest of the flats are company ones, used by company staff or visiting freeloaders. Nobody heard any shot, nobody saw Mardi Jack – the other two flats on that floor are also company ones. Andy Graham had a look at the roof of that building in Kent Street. Someone had been up there – there was a half-eaten sandwich and a Coke can.’

      Malone looked at the murder box. ‘You got the sandwich in there?’

      Clements grimaced. ‘You kidding? It’s gone to Scientific. They’ll hold it and we’ll match the bite prints against whoever we pick up.’

      ‘Any cartridge cases?’

      ‘None. Possibly a bolt-action rifle. He coulda been a pro or a semi-pro – he knew what he was about. One shot and he didn’t have to extract the shell. The roof is about twenty feet below the balcony, so he’d have been shooting upwards. That meant he was probably aiming to put the shot between the bars of the balcony railings.’

      ‘At night?’

      ‘The railings and Mardi Jack were both silhouetted against the lights in the living-room, assuming he shot her Saturday night. You ever use a night ’scope? You’d be surprised how accurate you can be with ’em.’ Clements was the gun expert of the two of them. Malone hated guns and spent the minimum allowable time on the practice range.

      Malone sat down, taking off his jacket. After almost a year here in the new Police Centre, he was still getting accustomed to the extra space in his own office. For years the Police Department had been scattered over the inner city; Homicide at one time had been quartered in a leased commercial building. It had lent a certain informality to murder, an atmosphere not always appreciated by the murderers brought in, some of whom expected the Brueghel-like scenes of Hill Street Blues and felt cheated to look like no more than tax evaders.