Model Murder (18 page)

From an envelope he’d been carrying, he shook out a couple of photographs and a cutting from a newspaper. Curious, Kate reached for them. The photos, just snapshots, depicted a much younger Corinne Saxon. In one she was in a small group that included Richard (looking devastatingly suntanned and attractive) at an open-air cafe. The second was a beach snap with just one other girl. Caught sunbathing on the sand, they were laughing up into the camera. Kate unfolded the newspaper cutting that was yellow with age. It showed the same two girls, in the same situation, but this time in a more studied, seductive pose.

Richard said, “I know you felt a bit let down when I couldn’t fill you in more about Corinne in the early days. So I did a search through masses of junk at home that any sane man would have chucked out yonks ago and dug out this stuff. The pictures were taken in Greece, when I ... knew Corinne.”

“In the biblical sense.”
Stop it, Kate.

“That newspaper pic, have you noted the legend beneath it?”

She hadn’t. It read:
Fun in the Grecian sun
.
An off-duty shot of model girls Corinne Saxon and Mitzi Labrosse enjoying the beach.

Kate looked up swiftly. “Labrosse? Mitzi Labrosse? Is she the one you mentioned as being Corinne’s friend?”

“That’s the one.”

“So what’s the connection with Yves Labrosse? I take it Mitzi wasn’t married then? Labrosse was her maiden name?”

“I shouldn’t imagine she was married.”

The phone on her desk rang. It was Boulter, “Thought you’d like to know, guv, that there’s nothing whatever on file regarding Labrosse’s appointment to the job here.”

“Nothing? No contract? No exchange of letters?”

“Not a blind thing. It must have all been arranged verbally—or the evidence destroyed.”

“Did you ask the secretary about it, Deidre Lancing?”

“Yep. All she knows is that Miss Saxon spoke of someone coming soon as assistant manager, and the following week Labrosse arrived.”

“Strange! Tim, something very interesting has cropped up. Come in as soon as Mr. Gower leaves, will you?”

Kate put down the phone and looked across at Richard. “Didn’t you tell me that Mitzi was French? Not Swiss?”

He shrugged. “She could’ve been Franco-Swiss. I just remember her and Corinne prattling away in rapid French every now and then.”

“Did Corinne seem to know Mitzi from the past ... from her childhood years in France? You told me, I remember, that the family lived in the Lyons area up until her parents were killed and Corinne came to her aunt in England at around the age of six or seven.”

“It’s possible,” he said thoughtfully. “Certainly she and Mitzi were pretty close ... as close as someone like Corinne would ever be likely to get with another female. Come to think of it, there did seem more to it than the normal sort of friendship between two girls in the same line of work.”

Kate pressed him further, but nothing else emerged. “Okay, Richard, thanks. Get back to me, will you, if anything more occurs to you that I could use.”

“Will do.” He
rose to his feet, awkwardly and painfully. “When do I see you, Kate?”

“I wish to God I knew.”

“You have to sleep somewhere tonight,” he reminded her dryly. “At my place you’d have an excellent selection of dictionaries and reference books on hand.”

“Get outa here, Gower.”

Boulter came in the instant Richard had left. Kate filled him in with what she’d learned.

“We’ve got to discover more about the Saxon/Labrosse connection, Tim. Get all the manpower we can spare at work on that aspect. Try to track down this Mitzi Labrosse ... she’s probably married by now. Talk to the various model agencies to see what information can be got out of them. And get on to the French and Swiss police to dig out what they can for us about the Labrosse family. If necessary, go over there yourself. I can’t really spare you, but ...” She gave the sergeant a warning glare. “If it’s
absolutely
necessary.”

It was what Tim Boulter really liked, she knew ... being handed an assignment to work on himself rather than dogsbodying for her. He departed looking mighty chuffed. Kate sighed in anticipation of the fresh avalanche that was about to hit her ... the mass of reports flowing from the re-interviews, of which all but point one per cent would be totally irrelevant. Her job was to spot the little nuggets of gold among the dross.

The receptionist and the secretary, she mused, had probably known Yves Labrosse better than anyone else on the staff. Kate decided it would be useful to talk to both these women herself. She sent for June Elsted first, and while waiting for her to arrive she took the chance to eat a sandwich the ever-thoughtful Frank Massey had sent in for her.

The receptionist came in looking pale and upset, and not a little scared. Smiling, Kate tried to put her at ease.

“Sit down, June. This is a very nasty business, and I know you’ll want to do everything you can to help me. First, I’d like to get things clearer about what happened this morning. You did see Mr. Labrosse earlier on, I take it?”

A nervous dip of the head. “Yes. He did his usual tour around once breakfast was under way, checking that everything was in order. He stopped at the desk and we talked over one or two small problems, then he went through to his office. I didn’t see or hear anything more of him until about ten o’clock, when he came out and walked across to the lift. I suppose he must have been on his way up to his room, where he ...” She choked back a little sob.

“Did he speak to you at that time?”

“No, he just nodded as he went past. Smiled, actually. It struck me that he was looking rather pleased about something. As if he’d just had some good news.”

“Oh? Have you any idea what it might have been?”

“None at all. It can’t have been about the bookings, because we’ve had several cancellations since Miss Saxon was killed, and some of the guests have cut short their stay.”

“Was it normal for him to go up to his room at that time of day?”

An emphatic shake of the head. “Not at that time, no. Sometimes just before lunch he would go upstairs ... like when we had that very hot spell a couple of weeks ago and he wanted to change his clothes. Mr. Labrosse was always fussy about his appearance—he liked to look immaculate at all times, and of course it gave such a good impression to the guests. Anyway, apart from something like that, he usually spent the whole morning in his office, or in the kitchens, or around the reception rooms somewhere.” She gazed at Kate forlornly. “I don’t know how the hotel can keep going without Miss Saxon or him.” Not unnaturally, June was thinking about her job.

“Hopefully,” Kate said, “Admiral Fortescue will find someone else to take charge. Meantime, the best thing is for everyone to keep on doing their respective jobs as well as possible in the circumstances. Tell me, June, what did the staff in general think about Mr. Labrosse? Was he well-liked, would you say?”

The receptionist was immediately wary. “He wasn’t what you’d call popular. With him everything had to be just so. I suppose that’s fair enough, in a smart hotel like this. But he was always sort of aloof from the rest of us. Never the least bit friendly.”

Changing tack, Kate said, “You know Mr. Berger, the architect, I suppose?”

“Yes, he’s here a lot ... not so much now, of course, since most of the work has been done.”

“Always on business? Or socially sometimes?”

“Oh, on business.”

“Could there have been anything more than a purely professional relationship between him and Miss Saxon?”

“Well ... I didn’t think so.”

“Did he ever visit Miss Saxon in her private apartment?”

“Never, as far as I know. I think it would have been talked about if he had.”

That figured. Berger would have been anxious to avoid any gossip over an affair with Corinne—and thence the probability of messy repercussions. That much was certain, from the arguments he’d used to persuade Vincent Pascoe into giving him a false alibi for the afternoon Corinne Saxon was killed. So where had he and Corinne met for their trysts? Another hotel? The Cotswolds wasn’t exactly the sort of area where you could book a hotel room for a few daytime hours. And in this locality there’d be a big risk of their being recognised.

“Might the two of them have met away from Streatfield Park sometimes, do you think? Did anyone ever mention seeing them together, perhaps? Think hard, please.”

“Well ... oh no, it can’t have been anything.”

“Tell me about it.”

“I did once see them together away from here. It was one evening about six weeks ago, a few days before the hotel was opened. My boyfriend was driving me to visit his married sister who lives at Larkhill. Just before we reached the village, we werepassing an old cottage and I saw Miss Saxon and Mr. Berger coming out of the front door. Both their cars were parked in the driveway round at the side.”

“Did they realise you’d seen them?”

“Oh, yes. You see, I gave them a wave ... automatically, without really thinking. Next morning Miss Saxon explained to me that Mr. Berger was having the cottage modernised for a relative of his, and he’d asked her to give him some advice on the decor.”

One of those little nuggets of gold, Kate.
Why the heck hadn’t this emerged earlier? Still, she had it now. After getting June to establish the date and time of this encounter as accurately as possible, Kate let her go. Sergeant Boulter was fully occupied with the French connection, so she called in Inspector Massey and explained the latest development to him.

“I want to organise a house-to-house in the area around Yew Tree Cottage in Larkhill. Will you set it up for me, Frank? I’m looking for corroborative evidence that Berger and Corinne Saxon used that cottage for their rendezvous. As things stand, Berger could still insist that Corinne was telling June Elsted nothing but the truth about going there with him to give advice about the decor. But if those two went to the cottage on a number of occasions, someone in the local community must surely have seen them.”

* * * *

Yves Labrosse’s secretary, Deidre Lancing, seemed even more upset about his death than the receptionist was. It was clear she’d applied fresh make-up before coming over to the Incident Room to see Kate, but she hadn’t been able to conceal the fact that she’d been weeping. Her eyes were reddened and puffy, and the droopy-lensed glasses gave her a ludicrous appearance.

“I want you to tell me about this morning, Mrs. Lancing.” Kate began. “Everything you can remember. Were you already in the office when Mr. Labrosse made his first appearance of the day?”

“Yes,” she whispered. “I start at nine, and he came in just before nine-thirty.”

“What did he say?”

“Just ... just good morning, as usual. He glanced through the mail, and took a few letters that would need his attention into his own office. I heard him on the phone once or twice—I don’t know who to—then after a while he brought out a tape for me to type up for him. Answers to the letters and so on.”

“Just routine correspondence, was it?”

“Yes.”

“All the same, I’d like to read those letters in case they contain anything I ought to know about. Now, the phone calls he made ... you said you didn’t know who they were to. But wouldn’t he have asked you to get them for him?”

She shook her head. “Mr. Labrosse always preferred to dial himself. And internal calls you dial and receive direct.”

“So he might have been talking to someone in the hotel?”

“Yes, he could have.”

“When he came out of the office the final time, did he say anything to you?”

Deidre Lancing lifted her spectacles delicately. “Just that he wouldn’t be away long, if anyone wanted him.”

“But he didn’t say where he was going?”

“No, he didn’t.”

“Was that unusual? Did he normally keep you informed where he’d be?”

“Well, yes. Normally. In case he was wanted.”

“What was his demeanour?”

“How do you mean, his demeanour?”

“His mood, then. Did he seem pleased, or angry, or regretful ... what?”

“Quite pleased, I suppose. He was sort of smiling to himself.”

“And that was the last you saw of Mr. Labrosse?”

Her eyes pooled with tears, and she bowed her head. “Yes.”

Kate asked the same question she’d already put to June Elsted. “Was Mr. Labrosse popular among the staff here?”

She raised her head again, surprised and to a degree hostile. “He was the manager. Most of them don’t understand that someone in his position has to insist on proper discipline. Make what might seem like harsh decisions sometimes.”

“So a number of the staff resented his authority?”

“I suppose you could put it like that.”

“Did he make any real enemies among them?”

“No.” she protested. “Just ... well, you always get grumblers, don’t you?”

“Anyone in particular?”

The woman shook her head quickly.

“Was there any special incident that caused an upset among the staff?”

Again a negative response, and Kate knew there was no point in pressing this line of questioning at the moment. She said smoothly, “I’d like you to think about it, Mrs. Lancing, and maybe you’ll remember something that could be significant. Meanwhile, what was your personal opinion of Mr. Labrosse?”

“Well ...” She was instantly on her guard, like a woman who knew it would be only too easy to betray her feelings.
She fancied Labrosse, Kate.
That explained the depth of her distress.

“He was wonderful at his job. I ... I admired him for that, of course. He could easily have run the hotel single-handed, without Miss Saxon, but I doubt if she could have done half as well without him.”

Kate decided to rub in salt to see what it produced. You couldn’t always be nice in this job!

“Was there a woman in his life, Mrs. Lancing?”

“No.” She was wounded. “Nothing like that.”

“Come now, Mr. Labrosse was a good-looking man, in the prime of life. It’s only natural to suppose that he must have been having a sexual relationship.”

“Well, you’re wrong.” Acid resentment now. “He wasn’t the sort of man who spent his time chasing after women.”