A Traitor to Memory

“Fine. Brilliant. Then let me prove it to everyone interested. I don't know about the rest of the force, but I'm not keen to stick this murder onto someone with no direct claim on the territory.”


He shifted from foot to foot like a schoolboy. He still held on to the door with one hand and his other hand now moved up to grasp the jamb.

It was an interesting reaction, Barbara thought. Despite what she'd said to reassure him, he was responding like a man barring the entry. He was acting like a man with something to hide. Barbara wanted to know what that something was. She said, “Mr. Pitchley …? The photo …?”

He said, “Very well. I'll fetch one. If you'll wait—”

Barbara shouldered her way inside the house, unwilling to give him the chance to add here or on the step, with or without a courteous please attached. She said heartily, “Thanks very much. Decent of you. I could do with a few minutes out of the cold.”

His nostrils flared with his displeasure, but he said, “Fine. Wait here. I'll be just a moment,” and he fairly threw himself up the stairs.

Barbara listened hard to his progress. She listened hard to the sounds in the house. He'd admitted to trolling for older ladies on the net, but there was always the chance that he did some trolling where the younger fishies swam as well. If that was the case, and if he had the same degree of success with teenagers that he had with the others, he wouldn't risk taking one of them to the Comfort Inn. Any bloke who made I-want-my-solicitor his primary response to any interaction with the police was a bloke who knew his arse from his elbow when it came to doing the deed with an underage girl. If he was bent in that direction, he'd make sure he didn't take the risk in public. If he was bent in that direction, he'd make sure he took the risk at home.

The fact that she'd seen movement in the room just above the street upon her arrival suggested to Barbara that whatever Pitchley was up to, he was up to it on this floor of the house. So she sauntered to a closed door on her right as Pitchley thrashed about somewhere above her. She swung the door open and found herself in an orderly sitting room done up in antiques.

The only item that appeared out of place was a tattered waxed jacket that lay over a chair. It seemed an odd place for the neat-as-pins Pitchley to stow a garment of his own. He had that sort of everything-in-its-place look about him, suggesting that the very last spot he'd deposit such a jacket after his daily stroll-to-wherever would be in his sitting room among the nice furniture of ages past.

Barbara took a peek at the jacket, then more than a peek. She lifted it off the chair and held it out at arm's length. Bingo, she thought. Pitchley would have been dwarfed inside it. But so would have a teenaged girl. Or any woman, for that matter, who wasn't the size of a sumo wrestler.

She replaced the jacket as Pitchley pounded down the stairs and plunged into the sitting room. He said, “I asked you—” and stopped when he saw her smoothing down the garment's collar. At this, his eyes shifted to a second door in the room, which remained closed. Then they came back to Barbara, and he thrust his hand out. “This is what you want. The woman's a colleague, by the way.”

Barbara said, “Thanks,” and took the picture he offered. He'd chosen something flattering, she saw. In it, Pitchley wore black tie and he posed with a stunning brunette on his arm. She wore a sea-green form-fitting gown from which balloon-like bosoms threatened to spill. They were patently implants, rising abruptly from her chest like twin domes designed by Sir Christopher Wren. “Nice-looking lady,” Barbara said. “American, I take it.”

Pitchley looked surprised. “Yes. From Los Angeles. How did you guess?”

“Elementary deduction,” Barbara said. She stowed the picture away. She went on pleasantly. “Nice digs. You live here alone?”

His eyes flicked to the jacket. But he said, “Yes.”

“All this space. You're lucky. I've a place in Chalk Farm. But it's nothing like this. Just a hedgehog hole.” She indicated the second door. “What's through there?”

His tongue lapped against his lips. “The dining room. Constable, if there's nothing else …”

“Mind if I have a peek? It's always a treat to see how the other half lives.”

“Yes. I do. I mean, see here. You've got what you came for, and I see no need—”

“I think you're hiding something, Mr. Pitchley.”

He flushed to the roots of his hair. “I'm not.”

“No? That's good, then. So I'll have a look at what's behind this door.” She swung it open before he could protest further. He said, “I haven't given you permission,” as she stepped into the next room.

It was empty, with stylish curtains at the far end drawn back against french windows. As in the sitting room, every article was in its place. Also as in the sitting room, however, one item struck a dissonant note. A chequebook sat on the walnut table. It was open, face down, and a pen lay next to it.