Just Desserts (12 page)

She smiled at him, and this time he was sure it was a patronizing smile. ‘You mean, what are we prepared to pay for it, don't you? We have to make a profit. Costly items tend to hang about for a long time, when we've had to lay out our money for them.' It wasn't true in this case. The serial number said the watch wasn't more than eighteen months old; a Rolex as new as this would go within days, at the right price. ‘Have you any provenance for the watch?'

‘Provenance?' He stared at her, trying not to look stupid, and failing.

‘We like to know something of the history, when we take in a Rolex watch.'

‘It belonged to my grandfather. He died last month. He always said the watch was coming to me. I'd like to keep it, but I need the money.' He had prepared this story in case anyone asked him how he had come by the watch. Now it had all come tumbling out too suddenly, the phrases piling up on top of each other, when they should have been delivered in a much more relaxed fashion. He wished he was anywhere but in front of this cool woman, who seemed to see through everything he was saying and find it amusing. But he stuck to his guns: it would be as bad anywhere else he took the watch, he was sure of that now. At least he had overcome his fears and brought himself here; he was going to tell his tale and stick stubbornly to it.

He glanced down at his leathers and said, ‘I've just bought a new bike, a Ducati 620. They don't come cheap, you know.'

The woman gave him that thin-lipped, knowing smile again. ‘I'm sure they don't. What did you want for the watch?'

He'd thought they would be anxious to get hold of such a valuable piece, that they'd give him a price and he might be able to get them up a little by cool bargaining. He could feel the blood rushing to his face; even the tops of his ears felt hot. He said, ‘You know the value of these things better than I do. It must be worth at least a thousand, surely?' But he knew even as he spoke that he had let the uncertainty creep into his voice.

The woman frowned. ‘We certainly couldn't go as high as that. Not without a provenance. No offence, sir, but we only have your word for how you came by the piece. In the circumstances, I don't think we could go above . . .' She paused, glanced down at the watch again and shook her head gently. ‘Three hundred pounds.'

‘It's worth more than that, surely?'

‘You're welcome to take it elsewhere, sir, of course. Someone else might think differently, but I doubt whether they'll offer you more than that. Not without any provenance.' She shook her head, with more certainty this time, and eased the tray with the watch upon it an inch in his direction.

‘Four hundred.' Barry stuck out his jaw sullenly.

The woman smiled, knowing that the argument was over, that the bargain was going to be resolved heavily in her favour. ‘If it will help you, sir, I'll go to three fifty. But that has to be our final offer.'

‘All right.'

She nodded, approving the wisdom of his decision. ‘I'll make you out a cheque.'

‘I'd prefer cash, if you don't mind.'

This time she did not trouble to disguise the condescension in her smile. ‘That's not how it works, I'm afraid. We don't hold large sums of cash on the premises nowadays – it's against all police advice. We'll give you a receipt for the watch, which covers you against any sharp practice on our account. But I can assure you that our cheques do not bounce.' She smiled her first open, wide smile at the absurdity of such a notion.

Barry took the cheque and the receipt, stowed them carefully away in the pocket of his jeans which had held the watch. She made him leave his name and address. He thought of refusing, of calling the whole thing off, even at this late stage. But he couldn't face the prospect of beginning this ordeal again from the start, in another place like this.

He turned away so quickly that she had to remind him to pick up his helmet and gauntlets when he had his hand on the handle of the door.

For Barry Hooper, it was the final humiliation.

Joanne Moss had watched the police car drive slowly up the unpaved track to the greenkeeper's shed, had known that the police must be interviewing Alan Fitch. Barry Hooper had ridden off on that new motorbike he was so proud of before the CID men came, so they had Alan to themselves. They were up there for a good half-hour; she was surprised how long they took with the normally taciturn Fitch. Joanne wouldn't have minded being a fly on the wall up there.

She had expected that the CID men would call in to see her before they left Camellia Park. She was left with a sensation of flat anticlimax when the police car drove slowly past the windows of the clubhouse and turned back along the road towards Oldford. She knew that the detectives had already spoken to Mrs Nayland and her daughter, and to Chris Pearson, the manager of the enterprise. Now they had interviewed Alan Fitch, who surely came below her in the loose hierarchy of Camellia Park. If you discounted Barry Hooper, the youngest and latest of the employees, who could surely have little to tell them, she was the only one of the staff who had not yet been interviewed about the death of Patrick Nayland.

Joanne knew it was ridiculous, but instead of being relieved, she felt a vague sense of disappointment, as if she had not been afforded her due status.

Half an hour after the police car had left, when she had tidied the clubhouse kitchen and made sure the food she needed for a busy Saturday lunchtime was ready in the fridge, the phone rang. A rolling, unhurried, country voice. Detective Sergeant Hook, confirming the address of her flat. He sounded friendly, gave her the impression this was little more than routine, said he was sure she saw more of what went on at the little golf course than most, from her position at the hub of things in the clubhouse. They would like to talk with her in private, away from the distractions of the golf course. They would like to speak to her in her flat, that evening at six thirty.

Her status was restored. So was her apprehension.

It was a few minutes later on that Friday afternoon that Detective Inspector Rushton, sitting in front of his computer, collating and cross-referencing the information accruing from the team assembled for the Nayland murder, discovered an important fact.

Facts, Superintendent Lambert always said, were the only reliable things. He was a regular Gradgrind about facts rather than guesswork, and the way you had to look for the significant ones. Well, this was a real belter of a fact. And he hadn't gone chasing about the countryside interviewing suspects to discover it, like that old dinosaur Lambert. This fact had come to Chris Rushton directly as a result of the application of modern technology.

Even Chris had thought he was merely observing routine when he had asked forensic to submit a sample of the dead man's plentifully spilled blood to the people who ran the National DNA Database, for comparison with anything they had recorded there. The database retains only the DNAs of those with criminal convictions, so it seemed a very long shot in the case of an ex-Army officer and respectable businessman like Patrick Nayland.

It was a long shot which scored a direct hit. The apparently highly respectable Mr Nayland had a conviction from eleven years earlier. He had been found guilty on a charge of Indecent Assault against a nineteen-year-old girl.

J
oanne Moss had the tea tray ready when Lambert and Hook arrived at her flat on the dot of six thirty. Rather to her surprise, they accepted the offer; no doubt they had had a long day.

She left the door to her living room open whilst she boiled the kettle in the neat little kitchen. They looked round the room without disguising their interest. Perhaps that was part of the training, to develop a thick skin; perhaps nosiness was a built-in habit by now for these men who looked to her so experienced. She wondered if the place looked as bare to them as it did to her, if they were remarking the empty spaces from which she had stripped photographs and memorabilia during her hasty sweeping away of significant items yesterday.

She had dusted the surfaces, so that they could surely not realize that the now rather bare-looking room had been crowded with pictures and other trivia only a couple of days earlier. She congratulated herself again on the ruthlessness of her clearance. It was impossible that they could be aware of her expedition into Gloucester to get rid of the dustbin bag with its significant contents. All the same, she wished now that she had not left them alone in the room.

She took advantage of the final moment of privacy to check again on her own appearance by pushing the door to and looking into the mirror on the back of it. Her dark hair was perfectly in place, her make-up light but skilfully applied. Her deep brown eyes were clear now: the puffiness around them which she thought she had detected earlier in the day seemed to have disappeared. The white blouse and grey skirt she had selected after Hook's call to arrange this meeting still seemed appropriate; not at all gaudy, as if she was treating this death with unbecoming levity, but not too formal either, lest she should suggest that it meant more to her than was fitting.

With her confidence thus bolstered, she picked up the tray and moved boldly back into her sitting room. They did not speak as she poured the tea and offered them biscuits, but she was conscious of them studying her, weighing up her appearance in a manner more open than anything she had ever experienced.

Then Lambert said, ‘You were the person who discovered the body. Will you describe that moment for us in detail, please?'

‘I told your officers about it on Wednesday night, immediately after it happened.'

‘Nevertheless, I should like you describe it again for us now, adding anything which you may have omitted in the excitement and shock of the discovery. Begin with the moment you left the restaurant, please.'

Was he implying she had deliberately tried to deceive the police at the time? She could deduce nothing from his demeanour. She said evenly, speaking like one in a dream, ‘Things were getting very noisy in the restaurant. We were nearly at the end of the meal and most people had drunk a fair amount – we knew we had taxis arranged to take us home at the end of the evening. The noise level was very high: I remember thinking what a row we were all making when I was on the steps down to the basement. I went into the ladies' loo. I suppose I was in there for three or four minutes.'

‘Was anyone else there at the same time?'

‘No. I passed Michelle Nayland, Patrick's stepdaughter, at the top of the stairs, but no one else came down to the Ladies whilst I was there.'

She watched Hook making a brief note of the name, felt for a moment that she had betrayed the girl. Lambert said, ‘Go on, please.'

‘There isn't much else to tell. As I came out of the Ladies, I noticed the door into the gents' loo wasn't quite closed. Then I saw Patrick's foot – well, I didn't realize at first whose foot it was.' She felt herself reddening, as if she had almost given herself away. This was ridiculous. ‘I could see enough through the gap in the door to realize that whoever was in there was lying flat. My first thought was that someone had collapsed, was in need of help. I called through the doorway, but there was no reply. I think I turned to go upstairs to get help next, but then I realized that the person in there might need immediate attention. So I pushed the door wide open.'

‘And saw exactly what, Mrs Moss? The detail may be important.'

She looked him full in the face, heard herself saying almost aggressively, ‘The detail I remember was the blood. It seemed to be everywhere, to be still running. It was the blood which seemed to dominate everything. I didn't even know who it was, for a moment. Then I looked at the face and saw that it was Patrick Nayland.'

‘The PM report says that he was certainly dead at that moment. Did you realize that he was dead?'

‘I'm not sure what I realized. I thought I was going to faint. I can remember having the absurd idea that I didn't want to fall into that pool of blood, get it all over the new dress I'd bought for the evening. I can't remember beginning to scream, can't remember anything else until everyone was around me. I think Chris Pearson spoke sharply to me to stop me screaming. I think he gave me a slap, but I'm not even sure of that. Anyway, that was the moment when I knew that this wasn't a nightmare, that I wasn't going to wake up and find everything back to normal.'

Lambert nodded slowly as Hook made more notes. Then he said an odd thing. ‘You hadn't arranged to meet Mr Nayland down there?'

‘No. Why on earth should I have done that?'

‘I've no idea, Mrs Moss. We need to be clear about these things, that's all. We're still getting to know things about the murder victim and the people who were around him when he died. We don't know much yet about their various relationships with each other.'

‘Relationships?' She repeated the word stupidly, as if this were something she had not considered until now.

Lambert said patiently, ‘It is almost certain that it was their relationship, probably with Mr Nayland but possibly with someone else there on that evening, which caused someone to kill your employer.'

She tried not to be startled by that word ‘employer'. An employee was what she was, after all, as far as these two were concerned, though she had long since ceased to regard herself as merely that. ‘Yes. I suppose that must be so. You just don't like to contemplate such facts, when you know the people involved.'

‘Since the subject has come up, I will ask you directly now. Do you know of any relationships which might have a bearing on this death? I need hardly tell you that you have a duty to be perfectly frank with us.'

She took her time, tried to give the appearance of giving due thought to a difficult question. She even furrowed her brow a little before she spoke: she was rather pleased with that little bit of acting. ‘No, I can't. Patrick was a good employer, and most of us had reason to be grateful to him. Equally, I think most of us gave him good value for our wages as Camellia Park developed over the years.' She nodded with what she hoped was due modesty. ‘I can't speak for any relationships in his private life, away from work, of course. You'd need to ask his family about that.'