Murder on Page One (18 page)

‘What does she do during her time here?’ Baggo asked.

‘Oh, sorry. Yes. Well, we go to the pub, meet friends. There’s the odd party, but as she doesn’t usually arrive till Sunday, not so many of these. Little Penny’s with Alan most of the time. Actually, Cilla comes and goes from my flat. She has a key, and I let her drive my car. She’s even got a child seat for it. I like the company, and it’s useful as she’s often here on Mondays, so I get deliveries and tradesmen to call when she’s going to be around. She’s a terrific cook, too.’

‘Has she ever done or said anything that looks suspicious now that you know we’re investigating murders?’

Lesley screwed up her face. Slowly, she said, ‘I know she’s cut bits out of the paper. I think they may have related to the murders, but as they’d been cut out, I couldn’t be sure.’

‘How often?’

‘A few times, but I didn’t pay attention. I just thought it was a bit odd. I remember coming home on some Tuesday nights, including yesterday, and the week before, to find the paper cut up.’

‘Did she say why she did that?’

‘No, but she would be away when I got back, and I never thought to ask her.’

‘What about last Sunday? Can you remember when she arrived?’

‘No. I spent the day with a friend and got in about, yes, eight it was. She was there, watching TV. We had a glass of wine then bed.’

‘If I give you a list of particular days, could you give me as much detail as you can about what Ms Pargiter did on them?’

‘No chance without my Blackberry, which is at the office. What dates are you interested in?’

Baggo told her and she made a note. Then they exchanged e-mail addresses. He took down details of her car then thanked her.

‘I’ll look all this up when I get home and e-mail you.’ She looked at him, frowning. ‘She’s my friend, but I’m not going to lie for her. I can tell you, though, she did not kill these people.’

* * *

Whoever had plunged the lethal syringe into Linda Swanson was neither R. Lawson nor R. L. Lawson, both of whom were in the process of making a lasting impression on the staff of the Fleet House Nursing Home. He had been convinced that the man in the next room had stolen his newest flannelette pyjamas, while his wife oversaw every detail of his care with a protective zeal as touching as it was irritating. With time to spare, Flick decided to return to the Noble household.

She recognised Gill’s dumpy figure with the ponies beside the house and decided to talk to her away from her mother and Parker.

‘They’ll be glad to get their blankets off today,’ was her opening remark.

Gill shrugged. ‘Suppose.’

‘What are their names?’

‘This is Buttercup.’ She stroked the white flash on the nose of the light brown one she was feeding. ‘And that’s Daisy.’ She indicated the smaller, pure black pony grazing nearby.

‘Nice names. Do you ride much?’

‘Yes. Like, I love all horses and ponies.’

‘I used to ride a bit, but I didn’t have a horse, and it became difficult.’

Gill showed no interest, but whispered something into Buttercup’s ear.

Flick tried again. ‘Does your sister ride?’

‘Yes, but she’s so more interested in other things.’

‘Such as?’

‘Music and stuff. Twittering.’

‘I hear the funeral’s tomorrow.’

Gill nodded and whispered again to Buttercup.

‘Lionel Parker’s doing the eulogy.’

Gill pretended she hadn’t heard.

‘You don’t like him, do you?’

‘So what?’

‘Gill, your father was murdered, and I know you’re really upset, but I’m trying to find out who killed him. If I’m to do that, I need to know what was going on in your family.’

‘Why? Everyone says it was, like, Crimewriter who killed him.’ Her voice caught as she said ‘killed’.

‘Who’s everyone?’

Gill shook her head. ‘Everyone on Twitter. Blogs.’

Flick sighed. If the traditional press did not apply enough pressure to an investigation, the new media, virtually uncontrolled, could make things very difficult.

‘It may be Crimewriter or it may not. We wouldn’t be doing our job if we made an assumption like that. Why don’t you like Lionel Parker?’

Gill wiped the back of her hand across her eyes then pressed her forehead against Buttercup’s nose. ‘It’s him and Mum.’

‘I’m listening,’ Flick said softly.

‘I’ve seen them kissing. Like once. He’s always around the house. He pretends, pretended, he wanted to speak to Dad, but I saw through him. So did Jenny. She hates him, too.’

‘Did you see him on Sunday evening, when your dad went missing?’

She shook her head then turned violently to Flick. ‘Even if Lionel did kill Dad, Mum had, like, nothing to do with it, I promise. She’s cried her eyes out, and she’s been so not cool with Lionel.’

‘How do you mean?’

As Gill screwed up her face, a shout came from the house. Parker rushed over and addressed Flick angrily.

‘You have no right to harass this girl, officer. She is very distressed.’

‘I have no intention of harassing anyone, Mr Parker. We were talking about horses. May I have a word with you, please?’

Parker looked from Flick to an equally stony-faced Gill and back again. ‘Come to the house.’ He turned on his heel and marched towards the front door.

‘Thank you,’ Flick said to Gill. ‘If ever you want to talk to me, here’s my card.’

Gill hesitated before taking the card, but she put it in a pocket of her gilet and turned back to Buttercup.

Parker held the front door open as he waited for Flick.

‘In here,’ he said, showing her into a room lined with bookcases and filing cabinets, dominated by a large, mahogany table used as a desk. It was obviously the dead man’s study.

‘I don’t want Vanessa upset further,’ he said, occupying the leather swivel chair behind the table. He crossed his legs and sat back. ‘Well, what is it?’ he barked.

Flick was not going to be intimidated. Without waiting for an invitation, she sat in the balloon-back chair facing him. ‘What were you doing between three and six on Sunday afternoon?’

He sat forward and glared. ‘I can’t believe you asked that question.’

‘Well I did. What were you doing?’

‘I was at home.’

‘Can anyone vouch for you?’

‘No. I live alone, and no one was visiting. Does that satisfy you?’

‘Have you ever been married?’

Parker was silent for a moment. ‘That’s none of your business, but I suppose you’ll be able to find out anyway. I was divorced some years ago.’

‘How would you describe your relationship with Richard Noble?’

‘Best friends. Had been since university.’

‘Never a cross word?’

‘That’s a fatuous question.’ He sat back again. ‘Of course we had disagreements, but nothing serious, nothing that lasted. We ran a very successful business together.’

‘Do you have any idea about the terms of Mr Noble’s will?’

He answered quickly and his eyes flashed to the right. ‘None whatsoever.’

‘Lastly, how would you describe your relationship with Mrs Noble?’

Parker’s face had been getting redder with each question. He stood up, his fists clenched. Flick could see that he wanted to attack her and prepared to move quickly.

Speaking very quietly, he said, ‘Of all the impertinent questions you have asked, that is the most abominable. I refuse to dignify it with a reply.’

Flick smiled at him as she rose. ‘Thank you, Mr Parker. This interview has been most informative. I shall see myself out.’

Instead of getting into her car, she walked over to Gill. ‘Who’s the family solicitor?’ she asked.

‘Marcus Ramsay. He’s in Guildford,’ Gill replied without hesitation.

Pleased that her stock with Gill had risen, Flick walked slowly to her car, aware of Parker’s highly-coloured face framed by the study window.

* * *

‘I fail to see the point of this, Sergeant, but if you tell me it is relevant to your inquiry I shall, of course, give you all the assistance I properly can.’ Marcus Ramsay was not the stereotype family solicitor. He was tall, with a round, fresh face and panda eyes. His golden tan ended abruptly at polo-neck level. Flick noted his athletic movement as he resumed his seat after shaking her hand. Tie-less and jacket-less, he sat back and looked inquiringly at her across an uncluttered desk.

This lawyer is a lot more fanciable than the one I have at home, she thought. ‘It is relevant,’ she said, poker-faced, noting the absence of a ring on his left hand.

‘I thought someone they’re calling Crimewriter was responsible.’ He spoke with an unforced public school confidence.

‘That’s just the press and Twitter. It may be one person, but we have to look at each crime individually. If we didn’t, Crimewriter’s brief would take us to the cleaners.’

‘I’m jolly glad I don’t do crime. A good friend has gone into that game. He defends all sorts of ghastly people. I couldn’t do it, I don’t think.’ He flashed a brilliant white smile. ‘If a client ends up in court, for any reason, I reckon it’s a defeat.’

A likeable lawyer, Flick thought, if a bit posh. She said, ‘Could you tell me about Richard Noble’s will?’

‘Not much to tell. Apart from a few legacies that are not particularly big, everything goes to Vanessa.’

‘How old is the will?’

‘Just over ten years.’

‘Had he been thinking of changing anything?’

‘Spot on, Sergeant.’ He gave her another view of his gleaming teeth. ‘He had been consulting me regarding Inheritance Tax planning. I believe Vanessa was against him running that marathon, and, frankly, I saw her point. Richard liked his food. He kept a very fine cellar, too. I mean, he wasn’t a drunk, or anything like it, but he carried a pound or two more than he should have. Anyway, it having dawned on him that he was not immortal, he came to see me and we discussed the options. After some humming and hawing, he went for a trust tied up with a bond. His two daughters were to be the only beneficiaries. That involved an immediate payment of £300,000 to set up the trust. He had to realise some investments and was doing that when he died. The paper-work was in draft form, and the process could have been completed within a fortnight.’

‘Do you know if he discussed this with Lionel Parker?’

‘I have to be careful here, but Richard told me that setting up the trust now meant putting on hold plans the agency had to expand. In New York, I believe. He did say Lionel was cross with him.’

‘Have you any knowledge of a relationship between Mr Parker and Mrs Noble?’

Unsmiling, Marcus said, ‘I hope you don’t expect me to gossip, Sergeant.’

Flick pushed on. ‘Did Richard Noble have any suspicions that he shared with you, Mr Ramsay?’

‘No. If that’s all …’

Noting the polite but icy tone, Flick decided not to outstay her welcome. In the car, she reflected that it might be necessary to re-visit the handsome Mr Ramsay later in the inquiry.

* * *

Baggo sat in a coffee shop round the corner from The Ritz, trying to spot Alan Trelawney as he arrived after lunch service. All the likely candidates had company or joined a table. At length, a tall, sharp-featured young man came in. His jet-black hair was unfashionably long, and he brushed it back as he looked round. His black leather jacket hung loosely, revealing an open-necked check shirt and jeans with a white belt. To Baggo, he seemed like a sort of urban Heathcliffe, a man with pulling power. He went over to him, introduced himself, showed Trelawney to a table apart from other customers then went to buy two coffees.

‘Cilla’s a good mother,’ Trelawney said defensively, once Baggo had explained the purpose of their meeting.

‘No doubt, but we need to know a bit more about her.’

‘Try asking her.’ The Cornish burr came across strongly.

‘We have spoken to her and her mother. Hopefully, we will be able to eliminate her from our inquiries once we have learned some more. I gather you were working in Cornwall when you met her and her sister?’

‘That’s right. Fifteen Cornwall. A great training. Got me to The Ritz.’

‘And they were on holiday?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did you not date Penny, the sister who died?’

He raised his eyebrows. ‘Yes.’

‘Yet, Cilla got pregnant?’

‘Stuff happens.’ Nonchalantly, he sipped his coffee.

‘Are you sure the little girl is yours?’

‘Yes.’

‘Have you had a DNA test?’

‘No. But I’m sure. What does that have to do with these murders?’

‘We have to know the full picture, Mr Trelawney. Does Cilla bring Penny down quite often to see you?’

‘Yes. Roughly twice or three times a month, depending on my shifts. Usually she drops Penny off on Sunday afternoon and picks her up on Tuesday morning. I don’t know what she does between times.’