Devices and Desires (31 page)

Oliphant said: “Until three or four months ago. A natural end with no hard feelings on either side. His version.”

“And we’re never going to get hers, are we? But one thing was odd. When Mair met Mr. Dalgliesh he was on his way home from here. His sister presumably was expecting him, yet, apparently, he didn’t telephone her. It never seems to have occurred to him.”

“Shocked, sir, something else on his mind. He’s just discovered that his ex-girlfriend is the victim of a particularly vicious psychopathic killer. Tends to eclipse brotherly feelings and thoughts of your bedtime cocoa.”

“Maybe. I wonder whether Miss Mair rang here to find out why he was delayed. We’ll ask.”

Oliphant said: “If she didn’t ring, I can think of one reason why. She expected him to be late. She thought he was at Thyme Cottage with Hilary Robarts.”

“If she didn’t ring because she thought that, then she can’t
have known that Robarts was dead. Right, Sergeant, let’s get started. First of all we’ll have a word with Miss Amphlett. The boss’s PA usually knows more about the organization than anyone, including her boss.”

But any information of interest that Caroline Amphlett might have she was adept at concealing. She seated herself in the armchair with the calm assurance of an applicant for a job which she has every confidence of getting, and answered Rickards’s questions calmly and without emotion except when he attempted to probe into Hilary Robarts’s relationship with the Director. Then when she permitted herself a moue of distaste that anyone could be so vulgarly inquisitive about matters which were not his concern, she answered repressively that Dr. Mair had never confided in her about his private life. She admitted that she knew Hilary Robarts made a habit of swimming at night and kept this up well into the autumn months and sometimes later. She thought the fact was generally known at Larksoken. Miss Robarts had been a strong and enthusiastic swimmer. She was not particularly interested in the Whistler except to take reasonable precautions and avoid walking alone at night, and she knew nothing about his methods except what she had read in the newspapers, that he strangled his victims. She had known about the dinner party at Martyr’s Cottage on Thursday, she thought Miles Lessingham might have mentioned it, but no one had discussed with her the events of the evening and she saw no reason why they should. As for her own movements on Sunday, she had spent the whole of the evening, from six o’clock, at her bungalow with her boyfriend, Jonathan Reeves. They had been together continually until he had left, at about 10.30. Her cool glance at Oliphant challenged him to ask her what they had been doing, and he resisted the temptation except to ask what they had drunk and eaten. Asked about
her relationship with Hilary Robarts, she said that she had greatly respected her but hadn’t particularly liked or disliked her. Their professional relationship had been perfectly friendly, but she couldn’t recall ever meeting her outside the power station. As far as she knew, Miss Robarts had no enemies, and she had no idea who could have wished her dead. When the door had closed after her Rickards said: “We’ll check her alibi, of course, but there’s no hurry. Let young Reeves sweat for an hour or so. I want to check first on the staff who actually worked for Robarts.”

But the next hour was unproductive. The people who had worked directly for Hilary Robarts were more shocked than distressed, and their evidence strengthened the image of a woman more respected than liked. But none had an obvious motive, none admitted to knowing precisely how the Whistler had killed and, more to the point, all could produce an alibi for Sunday night. Rickards had hardly expected otherwise.

At the end of the sixty minutes he sent for Jonathan Reeves. He came into the room, white-faced and as stiffly controlled as if it were an execution shed, and Rickards’s first reaction was surprise that a woman as attractive as Caroline Amphlett should have chosen such an unlikely mate. It wasn’t that Reeves had a particularly unprepossessing face. You couldn’t even describe him as plain if you discounted the acne. And his features, taken individually, were good enough. It was the whole face which was somehow unremarkable, ordinary, the kind of face which defeated any attempt at an Identikit image. Rickards decided that it was best described in terms of movement rather than features: the almost continuous blinking behind the horn-rimmed spectacles, the nervous sucking of the lips, his habit of suddenly stretching his neck like a TV comedian. Rickards knew from the list Alex Mair had provided
that the staff at Larksoken was predominantly male. Was this the best Amphlett could do for herself? But sexual attraction was irrational anyway. Look at him and Susie. Seeing them together, her friends probably felt an equal surprise.

He left most of the detailed questioning to Oliphant, which was a mistake. Oliphant was always at his worst with a frightened suspect, and he took his time extracting, not without pleasure, a straightforward story which confirmed Caroline Amphlett’s account.

Afterwards, when Reeves had been finally released, Oliphant said: “He was as jumpy as a cat, sir. That’s why I took my time over him. I think he’s lying.”

It was, thought Rickards, typical of Oliphant both to assume and to hope for the worst. He said curtly: “Not lying necessarily, Sergeant; just frightened and embarrassed. Tough luck when your first night of passion ends in a not particularly subtle police interrogation. But the alibi seems firm enough, and neither of them has an obvious motive. And there’s no evidence that either knew the details of the Whistler’s little habits. Let’s get on to someone who did. Miles Lessingham.”

Rickards had last seen Lessingham at the scene of Christine Baldwin’s murder, since he hadn’t himself been at the incident room when Lessingham had called in next morning to sign his statement. He realized that the sardonic attempt at humour and the controlled detachment the man had shown at the scene were mainly due to shock and distaste, but he had sensed, too, that Lessingham had a wariness of the police amounting to dislike. It was not an uncommon phenomenon nowadays even among the middle classes, and no doubt he had his reasons. But it hadn’t made him easy to deal with then and it didn’t now. After the usual preliminaries Rickards asked: “Were you aware of the relationship between Dr. Mair and Miss Robarts?”

“He’s the Director, she was Acting Administrator.”

“I meant the sexual relationship.”

“No one told me. But, not being entirely insensitive to my fellow mortals, I thought it likely that they were lovers.”

“And you knew that it had ended?”

“I assumed so. They didn’t confide in me when it began and they didn’t confide in me when it ended. You’d better ask Dr. Mair if you want details of his personal life. I have enough trouble managing my own.”

“But you weren’t aware of any difficulties caused by the relationship: resentment, accusations of favouritism, jealousy perhaps?”

“Not from me, I assure you. My interests lie elsewhere.”

“And what about Miss Robarts? Did you get the impression that the affair ended without rancour? Did she seem upset, for example?”

“If she was she didn’t weep on my shoulder. But, then, mine is hardly the shoulder she would have chosen.”

“And you have no idea who killed her?”

“None.”

There was a pause; then Rickards asked: “Did you like her?”

“No.”

For a moment Rickards was nonplussed. It was a question which he frequently asked in murder investigations and usually to some effect. Few suspects would admit to disliking the victim without blundering into an attempt at explanation or justification. After a moment’s silence, during which it was obvious that Lessingham had no intention of amplifying his statement, he asked: “Why not, Mr. Lessingham?”

“There aren’t many people I actually like as opposed to tolerate, and she didn’t happen to be one of them. There was no particular reason. Does there have to be? You and your sergeant
may not like each other, for all I know. It doesn’t mean that either of you is planning murder. And, talking about murder, which is why I assume I’m here, I have an alibi for Sunday night. Perhaps I had better give it to you now. I have a thirty-foot sailing boat berthed at Blakeney. I went out with her on the morning tide and stayed out until nearly ten at night. I have a witness to my departure, Ed Wilkinson, who berths his fishing smack next to my boat, but no witness to my return. There was enough wind in the morning to sail, and then I anchored, caught a couple of cod and some whiting and cooked them for lunch. I had food, wine, books and my radio. There was nothing else I needed. It may not be the most satisfactory of alibis, but it has the merit of simplicity and truth.”

Oliphant asked: “You had a dinghy with you?”

“I had my inflatable dinghy on the cabin roof. And, at the risk of exciting you, I have to say that I also carried my collapsible bicycle. But I didn’t put ashore either at Larksoken headland or anywhere else, not even for the purpose of murdering Hilary Robarts.”

Rickards asked: “Did you see Miss Robarts at any time during your trip? Were you in sight of the beach where she died?”

“I didn’t go that far south. And I saw no one, dead or alive.”

Oliphant asked: “Do you make a habit of sailing alone at the weekend?”

“I don’t make a habit of anything. I used to sail with a friend. Now I sail alone.”

Rickards asked him next about Blaney’s portrait of Miss Robarts. He admitted that he had seen it. George Jago, the publican of the Local Hero at Lydsett, had put it up for a week in the bar, apparently at Blaney’s request. He had no idea where Blaney normally kept it, and he had neither stolen it nor destroyed it. If anyone had, he thought it was probably Robarts herself.

Oliphant said: “And thrown it through her own window?”

Lessingham said: “You think she would have been more likely to slash it and chuck it through Blaney’s? I agree. But, whoever slashed it, it wasn’t Blaney.”

Oliphant asked: “How can you be so sure?”

“Because a creative artist, whether he’s a painter or a scientist, doesn’t destroy his best work.”

Oliphant said: “Miss Mair’s dinner party—you gave your fellow guests a description of the Whistler’s methods, including information we had specifically asked you not to divulge.”

Lessingham said coolly: “One could hardly arrive two hours late for a dinner party without some explanation, and mine was, after all, unusual. I thought they were entitled to a vicarious thrill. Apart from that, to keep silent would have needed more self-control than I was capable of at the time. Murdered and mutilated bodies are your trade, of course. Those of us who have chosen less exciting jobs tend to find them distressing. I knew I could trust my fellow guests not to talk to the press, and as far as I know none of them did. Anyway, why ask me what happened on the Thursday night? Adam Dalgliesh was a guest at the dinner party, so you have a more experienced and no doubt, from your point of view, a more reliable witness. I won’t say a police spy: that would be unfair.”

Rickards spoke for the first time in minutes. He said: “It would also be inaccurate and offensive.”

Lessingham turned on him with a cool, “Exactly. That’s why I haven’t used the word. And now, if you’ve no more questions, I have a power station to run.”

It was after midday before the interviews at the power station were completed and Rickards and Oliphant were ready to leave for Martyr’s Cottage. They left Gary Price to cope with the enquiry forms and arranged to pick him up after the interview with Alice Mair, which Rickards felt might be more fruitful with two officers rather than one. Alice Mair received them calmly at the door with no apparent sign either of anxiety or of curiosity, glanced perfunctorily at their identity cards and invited them in. They might, Rickards thought, have been technicians arriving later than expected to repair the television set. And they were, he saw, expected to interview her in the kitchen. At first it struck him as an odd choice but then, looking round, he supposed you could hardly call it a kitchen: more like an office, sitting room and kitchen combined. Its size surprised him and he found himself wondering irrelevantly whether she had knocked down a wall to provide such overgenerous working space. He wondered, too, what Susie would think of it and decided that she would find it unsettling. Susie liked her house to be clearly defined by
function; the kitchen was for working, the dining room for eating, the lounge for watching television and the bedroom for sleeping and, once a week, for making love. He and Oliphant sat in two cushioned, high-backed wicker chairs on each side of the fireplace. His was extremely comfortable, gently containing his long limbs. Miss Mair took the chair at her desk and swivelled it round to face him.

“My brother, of course, gave me the news of the murder as soon as he got home last night. I can’t help you about Hilary Robarts’s death, I’m afraid. I was at home the whole of yesterday evening and saw and heard nothing. But I can tell you a little about her portrait. Would you and Sergeant Oliphant care for coffee?”

Rickards would have cared; he found himself unexpectedly thirsty; but he declined for both of them. The invitation had sounded perfunctory, and he hadn’t missed her quick glance towards the desktop stacked with orderly piles of printed pages and a typewritten manuscript. It looked as if they had interrupted her in the business of proofreading. Well, if she was busy, so was he. And he found himself irritated—unreasonably, he felt—by her self-possession. He hadn’t expected to find her in hysterics or under sedation for grief. The victim wasn’t her next-of-kin. But the woman had worked closely with Alex Mair, had been a guest at Martyr’s Cottage, had, according to Dalgliesh, dined there only four days ago. It was disconcerting to find that Alice Mair could sit quietly correcting proofs, a job which surely required concentrated attention. The killing of Robarts had taken considerable nerve. His suspicion of her was hardly serious; he didn’t really see this as a woman’s crime. But he let suspicion enter his mind like a barb and lodge there. A remarkable woman, he thought. Perhaps this interview was going to be more productive than he had expected.