JONATHAN BLACK WAS AT home, in his bedroom, lying quietly in bed. He was not asleep, but he was careful not to move. When the call came, he wanted to be sure his cheek had the pink creases of sleep. Small touches, but important touches. Detectives noticed so many things.
And sleep, he thought, was the best kind of alibi. A guilty man did not sleep well on the night of the murder. A guilty man did not have wrinkles from the pillow on his face.
After driving home from his meeting with Dominique, Black had wiped down the car carefully, removing any fingerprints from the girl. Then he had had a glass of milk to settle his stomach, and gone to bed. He had been waiting in bed ever since.
The call came at five. That, no doubt, would be Richard. Calling from the police station to announce that he was being arrested for the murder of the Mitchell girl.
He let it ring five times, then answered it with sleepy irritability. “Hello? Doctor Black speaking.”
“Doctor Black. Charles Raynaud.”
The voice sent a small shiver, a slight premonition, down his back. “Charles, it’s rather late—”
“This is rather important,” Raynaud said. “Richard is dead.”
For a moment, he could not believe what he had heard. It was impossible, incredible, unthinkable.
“Richard? Dead? Oh, my God.”
“I’m sure it must be a shock,” Raynaud said. “It will be less of a shock to hear that Dominique is dead.”
“Dominique?” His mind was churning; he would have to be careful of what he said. “Who is Dominique?”
“The little girl you gave an overdose to. Tonight.”
He’s guessing, Black thought. He sat up in bed and reached for a cigarette on his night table. Guessing. Very astutely, but still guessing.
“I’m afraid I don’t understand you.”
He chose his words carefully, making certain there would be no slips.
“I’m not through,” Raynaud said. “There’s also the bottle.”
“Bottle?”
“It’s cloudy. Did you know it turned liquor cloudy?”
Black frowned. Impossible that he should know…
“Charles, whatever are you talking about?”
“Dezisen,” Raynaud said.
The bastard. It was inconceivable that he should know about that, without being told. Someone must have told him, and nobody knew.
Except Lucienne.
The sneaking bitch.
“Charles, this is all very confusing, and I really—”
“It’s all blown up,” Raynaud said. “Everything has gone wrong. Richard is dead, the estate goes to charity, and you go to jail. As soon as the police find the Dezisen in the bottle. And in Richard. The police will be fascinated.”
“My dear Raynaud, you must be under some terrible delusion. Police? Dezisen? I don’t have the faintest idea what you’re talking about.”
“I just want you to know,” Raynaud said, “that Jane and I are going to keep out of it. If we can. And only you can determine that.”
“I?”
“Listen,” Raynaud said.
There was a moment of silence, and then a mechanical scratching sound. Black poured himself a brandy, stubbed out his cigarette, and was lighting another when he heard Lucienne’s voice. On a tape recording. Lucienne was talking about the will, about hiring Charles, about the death of her husband and Black…
Good Christ.
“I just wanted you to hear that,” Raynaud said, clicking off the tape. “There are, by the way, two copies of the tape. They have been left with friends outside London. There is also a tape of my explanation of this affair, which has been left with another friend. All three tapes will be handed over to the police should anything happen to me, or to Miss Mitchell.”
“Charles, how absurd—”
But the phone was dead in his hand.