Free The Diamond Rosary Murders by Roger Silverwood Page A

of a crowded city centre consisting of high-rise buildings, an arrow was pointed at one of the buildings and read, ‘Used to be a hospital, now offices for United International Oil.’ Some of the paintings had groups of tiny silver stars printed on paper stuck around the head of a character on top of the canvas or paper.
    A sofa in the corner was loaded with more canvases. There was an easel standing in another corner, and three dining chairs around a big table in the centre of the room. It was cluttered with pots and tubes of paint, jam jars and milk bottles with brushes sticking out of them, and a half-finished watercolour on a board.
    Judy Savage noticed Angel’s reaction to the canvases and smiled. ‘Do you like my paintings, Inspector?’
    He hesitated, then returned the smile and said, ‘They’re different.’
    She didn’t like his answer. She pouted, sat down at the table in front of the watercolour and pointed to the dining chair closest to her.
    ‘I’m not into modern art, Miss Savage,’ Angel said, pulling out the chair. ‘My opinion isn’t worth a … isn’t worth anything.’
    She turned on a bewitching smile. ‘They’re very highly thought of in New York and Boston,’ she said. ‘That’s the United States, you know. I have a show in New York in April.’
    It sounded important. Angel wondered if she was telling the truth. He would be the first to admit he knew nothing about modern culture.
    She looked at him and smiled again, displaying two beautifulrows of matching teeth and a pair of pink, seductive lips. He struggled to think of a reply. It wasn’t easy for him to make an honest yet kind comment about her strange collages.
    He couldn’t help but smile. ‘I hope you have a very good show,’ he said.
    She smiled like an angel. ‘Well, thank you,’ she said.
    She rattled the brush she was holding in a tall vase of dark grey water on the table, squeezed off most of the water between finger and thumb onto a duster, looked undecided down at the palette of paints, then looked up smiling and said, ‘I’m not saying that it isn’t nice having you here, Inspector Angel, but what exactly did you want to see me about?’
    Angel rubbed his chin. ‘It’s about your ex-husband.’
    The angelic smile was replaced by a scowl. Her face went scarlet. She stood up and banged the chair noisily on the floor. ‘Oh
him
!’ she screamed in the raucous voice he had heard earlier. ‘What about him? He’s not getting a penny back if that’s what he’s after. I am not afraid to go back to court if that is necessary. He needn’t think I am too afraid to sit in front of a courtroom full of people.’
    Angel winced. ‘It’s not that at all, Miss Savage,’ he said. ‘Nobody wants anything. Please sit down.’
    She frowned. She looked round for her chair, snatched at it and sat back down at the table. She breathed in and out slowly three times, shook her head and said, ‘Well, if it’s not about money, what is it about, then?’
    Angel took a count of three. ‘The fact is that Haydn King was found dead in the swimming pool this morning,’ he said.
    She looked up. Her mouth dropped open. The excess colour left her face, and her big blue eyes glided gently to the left and then to the right and then back again.
    She breathed out. ‘Oh, I see,’ she said quietly. ‘Oh, dear. Oh, dear me. Must have been an accident?’
    ‘We are not sure yet. That’s why I wondered if you could assist us with our inquiries?’
    ‘The poor dear man,’ she said. ‘He was the only man I ever really loved.’
    Angel sat there patiently. He wanted to give her time to recover from the shock of the news.
    ‘And we could have made a go of it, if it hadn’t been for that nephew of his,’ she said.
    He realized she was referring to Vincent Fleming.
    ‘I’m not sure I can help, Inspector,’ she said. ‘It is some time since I saw Haydn. In fact, I thought I had finished with him forever. It is three years since our