A Three Dog Problem
- Автор: Беннет Си Джей
- Серия: Her Majesty the Queen Investigates #2
- Год: 2021
- Язык: английский
- Год: Zaffre - Bonnier Publishing Fiction
- ISBN: 978-1-83877-485-1
- Жанр: Другие детективы
Электронная книга - «A Three Dog Problem». Краткое содержание книги:
When a body is found in the Palace swimming pool, she finds herself once again in the middle of an investigation which has more twists and turns than she could ever have suspected. With her trusted secretary Rozie by her side, the Queen is determined to solve the case. But will she be able to do it before the murderer strikes again?
Today, it was different. At tables in the outer dining room, set as always with pristine white linen cloths and silver cutlery, people sat in twos and threes, holding desultory conversations. The restaurant-quality meal on Rozie’s tray looked as appetising as ever, but the mood was tense. Was it the recent Brexit referendum that had done it? She had heard senior courtiers speculating that the vote had swirled the waters of private opinion and brought previously unspoken rivalries to the surface. Were you nationalist or European? Did you support the Commonwealth, or Germany and France? You could support all of them, Rozie thought. Until a few months ago, everybody had. Now there were sides to be taken. Whatever it was, Rozie felt the mood had shifted during her few months working in the Private Office.
Her eye was drawn to a couple in the far corner: a younger woman and an older one, heads together. She recognised the younger woman, whose flame-red hair hung, Pre-Raphaelite style, halfway down her back. This was Mary van Renen, one of the assistants to Sir James Ellington. Rozie gave her a nod of hello and went over to join her. Only when she was nearly at the table did she notice that Mary’s eyes were red-rimmed, her expression bleak.
‘Oh, I’m sorry. D’you want me to go elsewhere?’ Rozie offered.
‘No, do join us.’ Mary gestured to the seat opposite. ‘Please.’
The smile appeared again, but it was watery and forced. She had hardly touched the roast chicken on her plate, while her companion, prim and sharp-faced, had nearly finished hers.
‘You can help me,’ the older woman said, as Rozie sat down. She seemed quite unruffled by Mary’s distress. ‘I was just trying to tell this young lady what a silly girl she’s being.’
Rozie threw her friend a questioning look. ‘This is Cynthia Harris,’ Mary said, dully. ‘Cynthia, this is Captain Oshodi, the Queen’s APS.’
‘It’s Rozie,’ Rozie said, holding out her hand.
‘I thought that’s who you were,’ Cynthia Harris said, flashing a set of dull, uneven teeth, busily loading her fork with carrot and potato. Rozie withdrew her hand. ‘I’ve seen you around,’ Cynthia went on. ‘How exciting, Mary, having one of the bigwigs sitting with us.’
‘Not that much of a bigwig,’ Rozie insisted.
‘Oh, but you are. You’re Private Office. Top of the tree. We’re honoured by your presence, aren’t we, Mary?’
Rozie couldn’t tell if she was being serious or not. Mary, whom she knew fairly well because she was always popping over on various errands for Sir James, was staring miserably at her plate. Then Rozie remembered what Sir Simon had said about one of the secretaries.
‘Don’t tell me you’re leaving? Is it you who handed in your notice?’
Mary nodded without looking up. A pair of tears fell on the untouched mashed potato.
‘She says she will,’ Cynthia Harris said from the seat beside her. ‘Thoughtless child. Overreacting.’
Rozie, whose instinct was to like people unless proved otherwise, gave the older woman a penetrating look. Cynthia Harris was whip-thin, with straight, almost-white hair cut in a sharp bob and dark, beady eyes that reminded Rozie of an inquisitive bird. Her uniform was that of a housekeeper: a spotless white cleaning dress worn with a dark blue cardigan. She looked fit and wiry, but older than average for such a job. She couldn’t be under sixty-five, Rozie thought, though she wondered if her face made her seem older than she was. Her cheeks were gaunt. Deep lines were etched around thin lips and between the eyes. Her beaky nose had a small pink bloom of broken veins. Rozie tried to interpret her expression as the housekeeper calmly forked the remaining carrots into her mouth. Was she calm? Triumphant? Disapproving? Suddenly those beady eyes were looking straight into hers. Rozie realised she was staring and shifted her gaze to Mary.
‘Are you really leaving?’ she asked.
The younger woman nodded. ‘I have to. I can’t go on.’
‘Such theatrics!’ Cynthia Harris said with a little laugh.
‘I don’t feel safe.’
‘You should feel flattered, if anything.’
‘Not safe? Why?’ Rozie asked.
Mary looked up at last. ‘I’ve had . . . Someone’s watching me. A man. Sending things to me.’
‘You don’t know that,’ the other woman scoffed.
‘I’ve seen him outside my flat.’
‘Do you know who he is?’ Rozie asked.
‘I’ve had messages, from a name I don’t recognise. He says we met via Tinder and I brushed him off.’
‘And did you? Meet, I mean.’
‘I don’t think so. I’ve gone over and over the guys I’ve met and there have been some weirdos, sure, but I don’t think any of them would’ve . . .’ Mary trailed off.
Rozie silently absorbed the fact that her friend was on Tinder. Mary van Renen – shy, methodical, old-fashioned – had always struck her as the sort of girl who would be happily single, or loved-up with a gentle boyfriend she’d known for years. At least she was looking for love – Rozie rarely had time even for that.
‘What did he write?’ she asked.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ Mary said, looking so upset Rozie didn’t want to pursue it.
‘And you don’t know it was him outside your flat, do you?’ the housekeeper added. ‘It could have been someone just pausing to have a conversation on his mobile phone.’
‘He wasn’t holding a phone.’
‘People have earphones these days, you know,’ Cynthia Harris countered. ‘Or buds, or whatever they call them. Or he could have been waiting for someone.’
‘He was there three times, at least.’ Mary closed her eyes.
‘So you say.’ The housekeeper rolled her eyes and shrugged at Rozie. ‘And even if he was, the police said it doesn’t prove anything.’
‘You went to the police?’
Mary nodded. ‘But they said I need more evidence before they can do anything. They seemed to think I was imagining it. But – but afterwards there was my bicycle.’
Rozie saw how her arms trembled as she twisted her hands in her lap. Mary was deeply upset – traumatised, even – and Rozie simply couldn’t understand why Cynthia Harris kept belittling her feelings, without a shred of sympathy.
‘What about your bicycle?’ Rozie asked.
Mary had to take a deep breath before she could get the words out. Her eyes were closed, her words spoken in a low rush.
‘He left a note taped to the seat. Said he liked this was where my . . .’ She looked as if she was going to be sick, and carried on. ‘I can’t say it. Where a part of me rested against the saddle. Where I sat. Said he liked to watch me.’ She opened her eyes. ‘I cycle here every day to work. I can’t do it any more. Mummy says to come home and that’s where I’m going, as soon as I can.’
‘Oh, Mary, I’m sorry. Did you tell the police about that too?’
Mary shook her head. ‘I couldn’t.’ More tears raced down her cheeks. ‘Each time you say it you live it again. I just . . .’
Rozie reached out across the table and Mary tentatively placed a hand in hers. Rozie squeezed it in sympathy.
Cynthia Harris gave a hiss of disapproval. She was looking indignantly at Mary.
‘It’s you who’ll be sorry. For a note on a bicycle! Go on, then! You just head home to mummy and leave Sir James in the lurch. You girls are all the same. One date gone wrong and look at you, you’re a snivelling wreck. When you think what the Queen’s been through in her life. Call yourself loyal?’
‘I just . . . I can’t . . . Excuse me.’
Mary scrabbled for her handbag, which hung on the back of her chair, and got up to make her way unsteadily for the door.