Model Murder (10 page)

“Well, well, so this is the high-powered lady copper everyone’s talking about,” he said with a chuckle. “Got looks too, haven’t you, as well as brains?”

She indicated a chair. “Your full name, Mr. Hammett?”

With a well-practised pluck he produced a card from his breast pocket and handed it to Kate. Gregory Hammett, she read. Sales Executive, The Pinnacle Double-Glazing Company.

“When I heard that you’d set up your headquarters at Streatfield Park, I was thinking it would be in one of their posh suites.” He glanced around her makeshift office critically. “I can’t say I’m much impressed by this.”

“Sorry to disappoint you, Mr. Hammett. Now, I believe you have some information about the red Escort we’re looking for. Do you know where it is?”

“Haven’t got the faintest.”

“Then what do you have to tell me?”

He leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs, savouring the importance of the moment.

“I popped into the Green Man down the road for a quick half just now, and the landlord told me you people had been asking a lot of questions about last Wednesday, the day you reckon that woman was raped and strangled.”

Kate didn’t correct him about the rape. “In the light of what occurred, we’re looking for anything that might seem unusual or suspicious. We’re particularly trying to trace her car.”

“I don’t hold with rape,” he said virtuously. “Oh, I know that some women damn nearly ask for it, but ... and killing her afterwards! It’s just not on. So I thought I ought to come straight to the police. I mean to say, it’s one’s duty, isn’t it?”

“Very public-spirited of you,” Kate said dryly. “Now let’s get to the nitty-gritty. The red Escort, Mr. Hammett. You’ve seen it somewhere, have you?”

“I should say so.”

“Where was that? And when?”

“On Wednesday, that’s when. Wednesday afternoon. It must’ve been happening at that very moment. Him raping her, I mean. Only how was I to know? My God, it’s a shaker, isn’t it?”

“Tell me about the car.”

“Well, I was on my way to see a punter over Verdley way to give him a price for one of our deluxe patio installations. I took that lane as a short cut, and there the car was, just sitting there ... one of those Escorts with a fold-down hood. Bright red, brand spanking new, too. I remember thinking what a
neat little job one like that would be for the missus when I get my next bonus. Myself, I need something a lot bigger, of course.”

“What time was this, Mr. Hammett?”

He looked pleased with himself. “Guessed you’d ask me that, so I figured it out for you ready. My appointment was for six o’clock when the guy would be home from work, and I arrived bang on the dot. Always do. Make a point of it. So it must’ve been seven or eight minutes before that when I drove along the lane and saw that car.”

It didn’t tie in. Corinne Saxon had left Streatfield Park at around two-fifteen—that much was certain—and the drive from there to where her body was found would only have taken her a few minutes. So had she driven somewhere else before her fateful arrival at East Dean woods? Or had her car been left standing at the roadside for several hours after her death? In which case, had the killer come back for it? Or was it someone else who’d driven it away? Or had Corinne been killed elsewhere, and her body taken to be dumped in the woods using her own car?

Gregory Hammett hadn’t finished, though. “When I went back along that way about an hour later,” he added, “the car wasn’t there.”

“Can you pinpoint the time more precisely?” Kate asked him.

“Well ... let’s see. I popped into my local for a noggin before going home, and I remember that ‘This Is Your Life’ was just starting on the TV in the bar. I hung on for a few minutes to see who it was going to be.”

“That means the Escort was driven away some time between a few minutes to six and a few minutes to seven,” she said.

He nodded. “Must’ve been.”

“Tell me, was it drawn right up onto the grass verge, or what?”

“No, it was on the tarmac. The lane is a fairish width at that point, so there’s room enough for a car to park without causing any obstruction.”

“Did you notice anything else that might possibly help me?”

“Not a blind thing. If I’d had the faintest glimmer of what was going on I’d have been in there after that bastard like a shot, I can tell you.”

“Very well, Mr. Hammett, thank you. I’m most grateful to you for coming forward. This information will be very useful to us.”

He looked smug. There’d be an embroidered version of how he’d been such a big help to the police told tonight in the Green Man. And at his local pub. Et al.

Kate stood up. “If you’ll just come with me, I’ll get someone to take down a statement from you and ask you to sign it.”

“Anything to oblige.” As he stood up too, he gave Kate a sharp glance. “Do you live around here, Chief?”

“In the neighbourhood,” she said cautiously, wondering what was coming.

“It just occurred to me, with the winter not far off you might be interested in our new All PVC Sealed Units range. I could offer you a very competitive price.”

Kate laughed out loud, oddly enough liking the man a mite better for his sheer bloody nerve.

“Not just now, Mr. Hammett.”

“Oh well, you’ve got my name and address if you should ever change your mind. I’d even wangle a useful discount for you.”

The afternoon briefing was unproductive. Kate could sense a marked relief among the men on the squad that it was no longer a case of rape they were dealing with. Most men felt edgy concerning rape; uncertain, ill-at-ease and out of their depth. Not blazing with anger, like the women officers.

Among a number of informative items pinned to a board were some of the photographs of Corinne Saxon that Richard Gower had provided. As the briefing broke up, a young WPC went to have a closer look. A minute later she came over to where Kate was talking to Inspector Massey and Sergeant Boulter. She looked flushed with excitement.

“What is it, Pippa?” asked Kate.

“That dress she’s wearing, ma’am.” The girl twisted round and pointed at the board. “I’ve seen it.”

“The picture appeared in the
Gazette
a few weeks ago. Was that where you saw it?”

“No, I mean today. I’ve seen the dress today.”

Kate jerked to full attention. Boulter, though, wasn’t so impressed. “You saw one just like it, you mean?”

They were two women together now, pitying his male ignorance.

“It’s a model dress, Sergeant,” said Kate. “Not a mass production number.” She looked back at WPC Hamilton. “You’re quite sure it was the same one?”

“Oh yes, ma’am. I had a good look at it. I was on foot patrol in Marlingford High Street this morning, and I glanced at the window of that Nearly-New Boutique on the corner near the library. I’ve bought one or two things there for myself, only most of their stuff is out of my price bracket, even though it’s secondhand. The assistant was just arranging this dress on a stand in the window, and I watched her for a minute. Feeling sick with envy, to be honest.”

“Did you go in and ask about it?”

“Not when she pinned the price tag on. Eighty-five quid!”

Kate glanced at her watch. Already past five. “Would the shop still be open?”

“I expect so, ma’am. Up to five-thirty, I should think.”

“Come on, then, Pippa. Let’s get going.”

The Nearly-New Boutique was a small shop a few doors away from the public library, with a hairdressing salon above it. The central doorway and both windows each had a small bouffant sunblind, with the name scripted in flamboyant gold leaf.

“It’s gone!” Pippa exclaimed in dismay, pointing to the left-hand window.

“Never mind,” said Kate. “We’ll ask inside.”

Fortunately, the shop was empty of customers. The woman who came forward to greet them was large-boned and tall, an inch or so taller than Kate’s five-foot-eight. She toned down her somewhat gaunt features by softly styled hair and a pair of pink-rimmed fashion spectacles.

Kate introduced herself and the WPC. “Are you in charge here?”

“I am the owner.”

“Your name, please?”

“Mrs. Sanderson-Browne—that’s Browne with an
e.
”

“This morning,” said Kate, “my colleague spotted a dress in your window. White silk crepe with a dragon embroidered on the bodice. It’s not there now. Have you sold it?”

The woman had been eyeing Pippa’s uniform with a certain distaste, but now she sensed a sale and beamed.

“That particular model has been sold, and no wonder, at the snip of a price I was asking. But I have plenty of other very attractive dresses. I’m sure I could fit you up. It’s for some special occasion, is it?”

Kate dashed her hopes. “I’m not here to buy. This is official police business. I’d like to know how you came to acquire that particular dress.”

“Why?” She bridled. “There’s nothing wrong, is there?”

“I’m afraid there almost certainly is.”

“Oh dear! Well, it was brought in here and offered to me, like most of the things I sell. I don’t have to go looking for stock. I turn down far more than I buy.”

“Who brought it in, Mrs. Sanderson-Browne? And when?”

She ruminated, fingering the tie of her silky blouse. “It would have been, let me see, Thursday. No, I tell a lie, it was yesterday. Friday morning. I’d just been along to the bank, so it would have been around eleven o’clock. The woman had never brought in anything before, but she had some nice things. Very nice things, in fact. I hope you aren’t going to tell me they were stolen?”

“Are you saying that you bought some other items from her, too?”

“Oh, yes. Several.”

“Then I’d like to see them, please.”

Resentfully, she went around the shop plucking things from racks and display stands. When she’d finished there was quite a pile on her glass-topped counter. Almost everything tallied with the list missing from Corinne Saxon’s wardrobe that she was presumed to have packed for her trip.

“We’ll have to take all these things with us,” Kate said. “We’ll give you a receipt, of course.” Cutting across the outraged protest, she went on, “What can you tell me about the woman who sold them to you?”

“Not very much. She was short and dumpy, a bit on the common side, to be frank. She told me the clothes belonged to her sister, something about her getting married again and going to live in the tropics where they wouldn’t be suitable. I remember thinking the two sisters can’t have been very much alike, because the one I saw wouldn’t have come within a mile of getting into these things.”

“Yet you accepted her story without question?”

“Now listen, I can’t be expected to go into the credentials of everyone who walks into this shop. I paid out good money for these things —in cash—so what’s going to happen now?”

“That depends. Think carefully, please, is there anything you remember about this woman that might help us trace her?”

“I told you already, I didn’t know her.” But there was a note of uncertainty in her voice and Kate persisted.

“Was she local, do you think? Was her face in any way familiar to you?”

Mrs. Sanderson-Browne considered, while fastidiously plucking an invisible speck from the sleeve of her blouse.

“Well, since you ask, I did get a slight feeling that I’d seen her around somewhere. But for the life of me I can’t remember where. Maybe she works in a shop.”

“What kind of shop might it be? Try to visualise her against a background.”

Her head-shaking suddenly yielded to a triumphant nod. “Hold on, I think I’ve got it. Not a shop, a market stall. Yes, that’s it. I’ve seen her at the Thursday markets here in Marlingford. I close for lunch, you see, and I usually go along to the market for fresh fish and vegetables. Her stall is right up at the end, near the Electricity showrooms. I’ve never bought anything from her, though.”

“What sort of things does she sell?”

“Knick-knacks and bits and pieces. Bric-a-brac, I suppose you’d call it.”

“Right. We’ll need a written statement from you, Mrs. Sanderson-Browne, covering everything you’ve told us. Someone will be in touch on Monday to arrange it. The only other thing I need now is the name and address of the customer who bought that white silk dress.”

“Oh dear! You don’t have to trouble her, do you? I mean, she buys a lot of things from me. I’d hate to see her in any way upset or embarrassed.”

“We’ll explain that it’s not your fault. But we must get hold of that dress as possible evidence.”

* * * *

The Thursday market in Marlingford was a much-cherished tradition owing its existence to a charter granted by some long-ago monarch. Nowadays, it was controlled by the local council, but Kate couldn’t hope that the official responsible would be found at his office at this hour on a Saturday.

“I want the name and address of this woman stallholder, Pippa, and I want it now. Someone at DHQ can dig it out for us. If the market manager can’t be contacted at home, then they’ll have to get hold of someone else who can open up the Town Hall and look through the records. While we’re waiting for the information, I think you and I have earned ourselves a cup of tea, don’t you?”

There were several officers sprinkled around the DHQ canteen who eyed them with interest as they sat down with their teas at a table near one of the windows. Kate could see that Pippa was both nervous and chuffed to be sitting there with a chief inspector. She’d be twenty-two or -three, a pleasant-looking girl with curly fair hair. Though not tall, she had well-coordinated movements that suggested she’d put up a good show in a dodgy situation.

“It was very sharp of you spotting that dress,” Kate commended her. “Small things like that can make all the difference in an investigation.”

A faint surge of colour came to her face. “I do hope it leads to something, ma’am. This is the first murder enquiry I’ve been on. It’s very exciting.”

“How long have you been in the force?”

“Three years now. Before that I worked in an insurance office, but it was deadly dull.”

“Are you ambitious, Pippa?”

“You mean ... about getting promotion?”