Death of a Dancer. Caro Peacock

see myself up,’ I said.

      She looked as if she wanted to protest. I felt her eyes on my back as I went upstairs and knocked on the door of the studio.

      ‘Who’s there?’

      Daniel’s voice, sounding annoyed.

      ‘Liberty.’

      ‘Wait a minute.’

      It felt like more than a minute before he opened the door. His hair was ruffled as if he’d been running his fingers through it, and there were dark circles round his eyes.

      ‘What are you doing here?’ he said.

      It was hardly a hearty welcome and it looked as if he meant to keep me standing in the doorway.

      ‘May I please come in?’ I said. ‘We must talk about Jenny Jarvis.’

      He stood aside and gestured to me to take a chair. I opened my cloak and put the basket on the table, beside his piles of music.

      ‘Hers?’

      ‘Yes. Remember I took it home? I never had the chance to give it back to her.’

      It seemed as if he couldn’t take his eyes off it. I sat down.

      ‘You’ve seen the posters?’ I said.

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘They don’t look like police posters. Who do you suppose is putting them out?’

      ‘Rodney Hardcastle.’ He said the name like a curse.

      ‘You know that for sure?’

      ‘It’s what the town’s saying.’

      ‘But he hasn’t got a hundred pounds. He owes tens of thousands.’

      ‘By the time anybody discovers that, it will be too late. The damage will have been done.’

      ‘You mean Jenny will have been arrested?’ I said.

      ‘It’s not even true. The posters say she’s wanted for Columbine’s murder. The police haven’t said that.’

      ‘They want to question her. That’s not surprising in the circumstances, is it?’

      I said it as gently as possible, afraid he’d flare up at me. Of all people, I didn’t want to quarrel with Daniel.

      He sighed, tore his eyes away from the basket, and sat down on the piano stool.

      ‘Was that what you wanted to talk about, the posters?’

      ‘There’s something else. I opened her basket and –’

      Somebody was knocking at the front door, heavily and repeatedly. Daniel’s body went stiff.

      ‘Who is it this time?’

      We heard the door open. Izzy let out a screech. Daniel jumped up.

      ‘Libby, keep them out. I’ll go and –’

      Heavy feet in nailed boots were coming up the stairs. There were at least two pairs and they were in a hurry. Below them, Izzy was wailing. Daniel had his hand on the door knob when the door burst open. A large police officer shouldered his way in, followed by another even larger. Daniel was thrown backwards.

      ‘Keep out of here,’ he shouted at them. ‘You have no right.’

      ‘We have reason to believe that you are harbouring a wanted fugitive,’ the first policeman said. His voice was as deep and dismal as river mud. He added, as an afterthought, ‘sir.’

      As he said it, the larger policeman was trampling heavy-footed across the room. Daniel regained his balance and moved to intercept him. The policeman simply shouldered him aside. He was making for the only possible place of concealment in the studio: a tall cupboard built into an alcove, where Daniel and his friends stored music stands and piles of scores.