You’ve got it there in the statements. To one boyfriend she was a rock chick in leather and net tights; another guy took her for one of the Badminton set, squeezing in dates between three-day events and point-to-points; and to her college friends she was the hard-up au pair fitting in her studies with doing the chores for a mythical English family.”
Julie ventured a comment in support of the dead woman. “We all show different sides of ourselves to the sets of people we mix with.”
Diamond wasn’t having it. “Britt Strand was doing much more than that. This was deception, professional deception, and that’s dangerous. Fatal, in her case.”
“Maybe.”
He said sharply, “Do you have another explanation?”
“Wouldn’t you expect it from a fresh mind?”
He glared at her briefly, recognized his own phrase and softened his expression. “Sorry. You’re telling the story. Don’t let me interrupt,” he said, as if it would make any difference.
Julie picked up the thread again. “She succeeded in convincing everybody she was a foreigner having trouble with her vocabulary.”
“When in fact she was as fluent as you or me,” said he, failing to see any irony in regard to Julie’s frustrated attempts to be fluent.
Doggedly she went on, “The staff believed her and so did the other students. But secretly she was getting the evidence she wanted for her story. She made a friend of the secretary, so she was able to be seen in the office without creating suspicion. We know she photocopied masses of documents because they were found after her death in the locked filing cabinet in her flat. She also chatted up Mountjoy, strung him along and let him think she fancied him—when all she wanted was to soften him up and get incriminating statements.”
As a recapitulation of events Diamond had immersed himself in at the time, all this couldn’t be faulted—but he didn’t hand out bouquets. He said brusquely, “Let’s get to the evening of the murder.”
“Well, he invited her out for a meal.”
“The first time they’d been out together.”
“Yes. They went to the French restaurant, Le Beaujolais.”
“The one in Chapel Row with thousands of drawn corks heaped against the window. I passed it this afternoon.”
Julie waited a moment, just long enough to let him know that she was capable of doing this unaided. “According to the waiter’s statement, they got along well with each other. No arguments. Mountjoy paid the bill and off they went at about nine-thirty. He escorted her back to her flat in Larkhall. She invited him in for coffee. She had the top-floor flat in a three-story house in a residential street. The people downstairs were away in Tenerife, so they had the place to themselves. There’s no question that Mountjoy went in, because fingerprints and matching hairs were found, and he didn’t deny it anyway. He claimed he left after the coffee. She’d asked him some pointed questions about the way he ran his language school and he was in no mood to stay.”
“And if you believe that, you’ll believe anything.”
“Do you want me to carry on?” Julie asked without altering her equable tone.
“Yes.” He slid his hands under his thighs as if sitting on them would discipline him. “Finish the story.”
“Two days later, the Billingtons, the people downstairs, returned from their holiday and found milk uncollected on the doorstep and mail for Britt on the doormat. There was no message. They were worried. They couldn’t sleep for worrying. Late that night they checked her flat and found her body on the bed, dressed in blue pajamas. Fourteen stab wounds. And those roses that gave the press their headlines.”
“Ah, the roses.”
He recalled the image sharply, thin crimson blooms of the sort imported by florists. At least six flower heads in bud had been forced into the blond woman’s gaping mouth, tips outwards, their rich color contrasting with the pallor of the lips and cheeks.
Julie ventured a comment in support of the dead woman. “We all show different sides of ourselves to the sets of people we mix with.”
Diamond wasn’t having it. “Britt Strand was doing much more than that. This was deception, professional deception, and that’s dangerous. Fatal, in her case.”
“Maybe.”
He said sharply, “Do you have another explanation?”
“Wouldn’t you expect it from a fresh mind?”
He glared at her briefly, recognized his own phrase and softened his expression. “Sorry. You’re telling the story. Don’t let me interrupt,” he said, as if it would make any difference.
Julie picked up the thread again. “She succeeded in convincing everybody she was a foreigner having trouble with her vocabulary.”
“When in fact she was as fluent as you or me,” said he, failing to see any irony in regard to Julie’s frustrated attempts to be fluent.
Doggedly she went on, “The staff believed her and so did the other students. But secretly she was getting the evidence she wanted for her story. She made a friend of the secretary, so she was able to be seen in the office without creating suspicion. We know she photocopied masses of documents because they were found after her death in the locked filing cabinet in her flat. She also chatted up Mountjoy, strung him along and let him think she fancied him—when all she wanted was to soften him up and get incriminating statements.”
As a recapitulation of events Diamond had immersed himself in at the time, all this couldn’t be faulted—but he didn’t hand out bouquets. He said brusquely, “Let’s get to the evening of the murder.”
“Well, he invited her out for a meal.”
“The first time they’d been out together.”
“Yes. They went to the French restaurant, Le Beaujolais.”
“The one in Chapel Row with thousands of drawn corks heaped against the window. I passed it this afternoon.”
Julie waited a moment, just long enough to let him know that she was capable of doing this unaided. “According to the waiter’s statement, they got along well with each other. No arguments. Mountjoy paid the bill and off they went at about nine-thirty. He escorted her back to her flat in Larkhall. She invited him in for coffee. She had the top-floor flat in a three-story house in a residential street. The people downstairs were away in Tenerife, so they had the place to themselves. There’s no question that Mountjoy went in, because fingerprints and matching hairs were found, and he didn’t deny it anyway. He claimed he left after the coffee. She’d asked him some pointed questions about the way he ran his language school and he was in no mood to stay.”
“And if you believe that, you’ll believe anything.”
“Do you want me to carry on?” Julie asked without altering her equable tone.
“Yes.” He slid his hands under his thighs as if sitting on them would discipline him. “Finish the story.”
“Two days later, the Billingtons, the people downstairs, returned from their holiday and found milk uncollected on the doorstep and mail for Britt on the doormat. There was no message. They were worried. They couldn’t sleep for worrying. Late that night they checked her flat and found her body on the bed, dressed in blue pajamas. Fourteen stab wounds. And those roses that gave the press their headlines.”
“Ah, the roses.”
He recalled the image sharply, thin crimson blooms of the sort imported by florists. At least six flower heads in bud had been forced into the blond woman’s gaping mouth, tips outwards, their rich color contrasting with the pallor of the lips and cheeks.