Murder in the Cotswolds (8 page)

Sergeant Boulter was nodding. “That would be Mrs. Alison Knight? We have her down to be interviewed, ma’am. She’s on DC Green’s list, I think.”

“I don’t see why you should want to talk to her,” said Prescott, frowning worriedly.

“Just routine questions, sir. And by the way, we’d better have your home address for the record.”

“It’s a hotel, a residential hotel. I find that convenient, since my wife died. Bedford Court, I expect you know it. But I hope you won’t be going round there upsetting everyone by asking a lot of questions.”

While that anxiety was still with him, Kate winged in with her next question. “I believe that you’re the honorary treasurer of the Chipping Bassett Leisure Centre extension fund?”

Prescott’s head twisted back to Kate. It was plain fear that glimmered in his eyes. “I am, yes, but....”

“Mrs. Latimer was on the organising committee?”

“That’s right, but....”

“What contact did you have with her in that connection, Mr. Prescott?”

He made vague little gestures. “The occasional meeting, no more than that.”

“And everything has been going well?”

“Going well? How do you mean?”

“No disagreements of any kind?”

The accountant gaped, then pulled himself together with a visible effort and adopted an outraged tone. “Now, look here—”

“Mr. Prescott,” Tim intervened again, “the chief inspector merely wants to get an accurate picture of recent events as they concerned Mrs. Latimer. You’d help us by giving simple, straightforward answers.”

There was a sullen pause, and then his tone became one of patient explanation. “If you have ever had the experience of sitting on a committee, Chief Inspector, you’ll know that there are always minor disagreements. Little clashes of personality and so on.”

“And you and Mrs. Latimer clashed?”

“Not especially. No more than any of the others.”

“She had no criticism of the manner in which you were handling the funds collected?”

An appalled silence. His face drained of what little colour it had, giving him the pallid, flabby appearance of an oven-ready chicken.

“Absolutely none! Really, Chief Inspector, I must protest most strongly at what you’re insinuating.”

Kate chose this moment to terminate the interview. If she pressed him any harder at this stage he was going to clam up on her completely. She’d let him sweat for a while. Without doubt Prescott had something to hide, something that made him sick with fear. To what extent that something would confirm Richard Gower’s story she couldn’t be sure, though she did feel hopeful.
Great oaks from little acorns grow, Kate! Oh
sure, sure, but ninety-nine point nine percent of them wither and die. Even if George Prescott was up to his neck in financial chicanery, it didn’t necessarily make him a murderer. The next step would be to establish that he
could
have killed Belle Latimer. That he had no alibi for the vital time and that he was somehow able to use Gower’s car. A hell of a lot to hope for.

She stood up, hitching her bag over her shoulder. “Thank you, Mr. Prescott. That will be all for the time being. Good morning to you.”

Long after the police had left his office, George Prescott sat at his desk, staring vacantly at the opposite wall. Every now and then he was seized with a fit of trembling. Half an hour went by, and he heard the two women in the outer office leave for their lunch hour. Still he sat doing nothing. At length, he pushed himself up wearily from his chair and peered out through the communicating door, just to make quite sure that he was alone.

He picked up his phone and dialled a familiar number. It rang for a long while—probably Joan was in the garden on such a fine day. When she finally answered, she was glad to hear his voice.

“Georgie?” She became suddenly anxious. “I hope this doesn’t mean you won’t be coming to see me on my birthday next week. You did promise.”

“No, that’s still on. Listen, Joan, I have a favour to ask.”

“Then ask away, love. You know I can’t refuse my baby brother anything. What is it?”

“I ... I can’t explain, not on the telephone. Suppose I come over to see you now?”

“Well, of course. If it’s so urgent. You can have some lunch with me.”

“No,” he said with a shudder. “I shan’t want any lunch.”

Twenty minutes later, he drew up outside his sister’s thatched cottage, to which she’d moved to be near him after retiring from her job in the claims office of a large insurance company in Gloucester. The front wall of Meadow View was smothered with a giant banksia rose, a thousand tiny yellow blooms shimmering in the sunshine. Joan was standing at the door, on the lookout for him. She was a small woman, with grey hair frizzy from over-perming. Winged spectacles gave her a birdlike appearance, which was accentuated by the way she moved, daintily, with fluttery little gestures of her hands.

“Georgie, whatever is this all about?”

He glanced nervously at the open windows of the adjoining cottage. “Let’s go indoors, Joan.”

“Oh very well. Though I can’t think why you need to be so secretive.”

Inside, the sheen of polished brass dazzled from every shelf, every tabletop, almost every possible space on every wall.

Horse brasses, candlesticks, handbells, paperknives, figurines and animals, platters and bowls and ashtrays. “I love brass,” Joan was wont to confide unnecessarily.

George Prescott sank into a cushioned Windsor chair and passed his podgy hands across his eyes. “Joan,” he said, “you have to help me.”

“Of course I’ll help you, Georgie, you know that. What is it you want me to do for you?”

He gazed at her, wondering if he’d been a perfect fool to come here. How could he word his plea? What could he tell dear old Joan that she’d be able to square with her puritan conscience?

“Joan, please listen to me and don’t ask questions. I can’t explain what this is all about, it’s too complicated. But the police have been ... well, nosing around, and....”

“The police? Nosing around? Whatever do you mean, Georgie?”

“I said don’t ask questions.” He was suddenly petulant, exactly as he used to be years ago when she’d caught him out in some boyish prank. “Just accept my word that what I’m asking you to do is necessary. It’s not all that much, anyway. I want you to say, if asked, that I spent Tuesday evening here with you. The whole evening. I came about seven and I stayed till nearly eleven. Have you got that?”

“But you weren’t here on Tuesday, Georgie. It’s over three weeks since you last came to see me.”

“For God’s sake, woman! Will you please do as I say and don’t nag me about the whys and wherefores.”

Joan looked at him doubtfully. He could be so difficult and unkind when he got in a paddy. She set about soothing him down, aided by years of practice.

“Oh very well then, if it’s so important to you. But you shouldn’t tell lies, Georgie, specially to the police.” She saw temper flare in his eyes and went on hastily, “All right, I’ll say what you want me to say. Now, which evening was it?”

“Tuesday,” he said impatiently. “Tuesday. I came at seven and stayed till nearly eleven.”

Joan repeated his words silently, then gave her brother a bright nod. “Yes, I’ve got that.”

“Thank heaven. You’d better say we had supper, and talked. Oh, and we played Scrabble. Right?”

“Had supper and played Scrabble. Right, Georgie.” At least the danger of an ugly scene had been averted. Besides, the dear boy wouldn’t ask her to tell a lie for him without having a very good reason. And after all, it wasn’t much of a lie, just a little fib. A harmless little fib. Fortunately for George, Joan was too unworldly to connect the evening in question with the murder of Mrs. Belle Latimer.

After he’d left, Joan stood lost in dithering thought. As in all her moments of crisis, she cast her mind back to the days of their childhood. It had been such fun then, with her two-years-older sister and baby brother Georgie. Such fun. Now Mary had been dead these five years, and their dear parents long ago. She sighed, reflecting sadly that her adult life somehow hadn’t lived up to its bright promise. Her Mr. Right had failed to make an appearance, which had denied her the children she’d always longed for. She hadn’t even become an auntie, since Mary hadn’t married either, and Georgie’s wife had been unable to conceive. At her office, although she’d always got along quite pleasantly with the other women clerks, she’d failed to make any close friendships. And it was the same now; though she took part in lots of village activities, she’d never properly been accepted as belonging even after four years. So it was only dear Georgie who really mattered to her, only dear Georgie in all the world who really cared whether she was alive or dead.

* * * *

Back in the street after leaving Prescott’s office, Kate had said to her sergeant, “Fancy something choicer to eat than we’ll get dished up at the nick?”

“Well....”

“What’s the best pub grub in town?”

“The best? The Black Swan. But that’s very pricey, so....”

“Lead the way,” she cut in. “My treat today, Tim.”

“Oh, that’s something else.”

They chose a table out on the terrace, which overlooked the river. Swans glided by, dipping their orange beaks, but none of them were black. Tim Boulter ordered a pint of bitter and Kate a half of lager. She studied the menu and elected for a mushroom omelette with salad.

The sergeant cocked a questioning eye at her. “Okay if I have steak and chips, ma’am?”

“The name’s Kate at times like this. How d’you like your steak, Tim?”

He had an engaging grin, when he dropped his guard with her. “Just so long as it’s good and thick, Kate. Plus a few peas to go with it.”

Chatting over their drinks, their relationship eased a little. Boulter’s attitude to her was oddly mixed. One moment he’d be treading eggshells, the next risking a bit of mild cheek. Kate couldn’t help sympathising with the poor guy. There wasn’t a doubt in her mind that his mates were ribbing him something rotten for having to be at a woman’s beck and call. Which, fortunately, was his worry, not hers.

“With any luck,” she said, “you’ll be home at a reasonable hour this evening. That’ll please your wife.”

“Huh! I doubt it.”

“You have children, haven’t you, Tim?”

He nodded. “Two girls. Mandy who’s four, and Sharon is two and a half.”

“That’s nice.”

He gave her a wan answering smile with a distinct touch of gloom in it. So Tim was having problems at home. Not something totally new for a copper, especially one in the CID. Kate thought about her own marriage, which in retrospect always seemed ideal, filled with such perfect harmony and understanding. Yet if she were honest there’d been times when Noel had raged at her for thinking more about the bloody job than she did about him—and she’d only been a WPC in those days. She wondered now, if their marriage had not been so tragically cut short and she’d re-joined the police force as planned the moment their children were sufficiently reared, would it have survived the ever-mounting stresses as she rose in rank? Could she, with all the emotional demands a husband and children impose upon a woman, have made it to chief inspector? She doubted it. Maybe she wouldn’t have wanted to.

Or more likely, she would have wanted to and been compelled to make a choice....

“That committee for the Leisure Centre fund,” she said. “We’ll need to have every member interviewed. See what hints we can pick up about George Prescott being on the fiddle. If it’s true, was it generally suspected? But softlee softlee, none of them must guess what we’re after, not at this stage of the game.”

“Right, I’ll get it organised. And it might be worth talking to some of the staff at the Leisure Centre.”

“Agreed,” she said. “Ah good, here comes the food.”

The sergeant’s steak was enormous, with a vast pile of chips and peas, garnished with tomatoes and mushrooms. Kate watched, fascinated, while he scoffed the lot.

“Could you squeeze in a dessert, Tim?” This was intended as irony, but he didn’t look abashed.

“I noticed they’ve got baked jam roll on the menu.”

Kate managed a slice of fresh pineapple, just to keep him company.

Friday morning was the first opportunity for a full briefing of the now assembled murder squad. By one minute to nine everyone was crowded into the largest of the assigned rooms, awaiting the arrival of the senior investigating officer.

Kate had taken special care dressing and grooming herself. Up front, the focal point of all eyes
;
she wanted to present the best possible image. It was okay for men in her position to appear before the troops in a shapeless suit and with rumpled hair. For a woman, that would invite a loss of respect. Kate had long ago come to terms with how to dress on duty. She knew she was attractive, and it was in her nature to make the most of herself. A gloss of success and self-confidence was a necessary part of the package. Cleverness as well, but not too much of the street-wise variety.

Rushing the last few minutes, she managed to make her entrance on the dot of nine. The din of conversation ceased. She glanced around and opened the proceedings with a few succinct words.

“Good morning, gentlemen and ladies.” (There were two WPCs on the squad.) “Thank you for being here promptly. Most of you I’ve already met and spoken to, those I haven’t I hope to talk with very soon. Now, we’re here today for a common purpose, and good teamwork is going to be vital on this job. So let’s sort out between us how we can nail our killer. And fast. I’ll ask Sergeant Boulter to kick off by giving us a run-down of what we know so far. Tim!”

Boulter had already chalked on a blackboard the names of the chief suspects. Pointing to the first on the list with a ruler, he began, “The husband couldn’t have done the job in person. We know for a fact that he was in London at the time—with a woman, as it happens. Nor could it have been done by Mrs. Latimer’s cousin, Alexander Stedham, who stands to inherit the bulk of her fortune. The Kenya police have confirmed that he was definitely out there at the relevant time. So, if either of these men is involved—or both—we’re looking for evidence of collusion with some other party.”