The Body of a Woman (23 page)

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Authors: Clare Curzon

BOOK: The Body of a Woman
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‘That'd be the day! You wouldn't get him driving through a car wash. Anyways the boss makes sure it's hand-polished. We don't trust them gritty cloths at garages.'
‘Thanks, Ben. You're right to take care of a beautiful car like that.'
The licensee had been called away to duties at ground floor level. Beaumont readjusted his cooled buttocks and grinned at the big man. ‘Looks like a real party you're setting up, with all that booze.'
Ben arf-arfed like a cartoon dog. ‘One of Mr Piggott's specials over at Henley. We go over and help, me and Walter. Real toff clothes with black bows.'
‘Dinner jackets and black ties? I bet you look good.'
‘Mine had to be made special because I'm big, but Walter's got Mr Piggott's old one cut down.'
Parties and quality dinner jackets, Beaumont registered. Weren't they just the things he'd spent hours fruitlessly trying to hunt up over the Leila Knightley murder? He took a deep breath.
‘And the guests all dress up, wear masks? Things like that?'
Ben was nodding, his heavy face transformed with a vast smile. ‘Lovely, the ladies are. Some play the tables and some dance.'
‘So who gives these parties, Ben?'
‘A gentleman Mr Piggott's partners in it with. Sir Arthur something.'
‘Oh, I see. Posh people.'
‘I'll say.'
Sir Arthur, near Henley: that ought to be enough for the local nick to come up with an address. Beaumont slid off his barrel, satisfied. He reached the stairs to go up when Ben said reminiscently. ‘He's got a nice one too. Sir Arthur.'
Beaumont turned back. ‘A nice what?'
‘Merc. Only his is silver. And it's usually got mud splashes.' He disapproved. But Beaumont was in seventh heaven.
Beaumont received an odd look from the desk constable at Henley when he made his request. The name of Havelock House and its owner was ready to hand. ‘Lotta activity out there today. What's up?'
‘You tell me.'
‘Second request for info from your lot today. You're on Mr Yeadings' team, aren't you?'
Beaumont treated him to his wooden puppet stare. He didn't intend trading questions all day. He simply needed directions. The constable got the message and produced a local map.
‘Take no notice of these lanes,' he advised, running a pencil point through them. ‘Go straight out towards Wycombe to this cross, then take a left turn and left again. It's longer but it's quicker, and less chance you'll get lost.'
For starters that wasn't entirely encouraging, and when he did turn in at the open gates of Sir Arthur Waites' home his spirits sank at sight of the cars drawn up before the doors. Central to the group was Angus Mott's Saab.
‘Pipped at the bloody post,' Beaumont told himself in disgust.
A fifty-ish woman in a willow green trouser-suit came out of the house and went to delve inside a battered Mini. She emerged with what looked like a doctor's bag. Beaumont accosted her with his ID open.
‘Ah,' she said, ‘another. I do hope you'll take a discreet line. Everyone is naturally upset.' Behind her two almost identical men in black started bringing out a coffin.
Beaumont felt his hunter's blood stir in his veins. ‘Before you start sedating anyone,' he said sternly to cover his bluff, ‘we need to know exactly what happened here.'
She wasn't impressed. ‘That is presently the concern of
your Inspector Mott. Excuse me. I have a patient to attend to.'
He followed her in. On her way upstairs she passed Rosemary Zyczynski coming down. ‘Hi,' Z greeted him, surprised. ‘What brings you here?' She came out to the door.
‘Waites' Mercedes.'
‘But it's out of action.'
He looked at her sadly. It wasn't his day for getting things straight the first time. He explained why the car was his subject of interest. ‘Are you telling me it isn't here?'
Z gazed around. ‘Behind the undertaker's van.' She waved towards where the coffin was being slid into a windowless vehicle with a high top. ‘But it's had quite a dent.'
‘Splendid. So who's the stiff?'
‘Lady Waites,' she said, glaring. Then to cut off whatever gaffe his delighted expression threatened, ‘Natural death after a long illness.'
‘So where's His Nibs?'
‘Which one? Angus is with Sir Arthur. So Sir Arthur's with Angus. Look, if you want the car, shouldn't you take a look while it's still here? It's due to be sent for repair.'
Beaumont hesitated. He had a fancy to sneak in on whatever Mott was about. The DI certainly wasn't following up a death from natural causes. But the sooner the Merc's damage was checked the sooner he could get it plastic-wrapped for forensic examination. At any moment now some oaf might try to get in and drive it away.
He wove his way between the parked vehicles and went round to the front. It looked promising: damage at the right level for the accident as Chloe had described it. What he wasn't keen on was the faint powdering of brickdust in places. Which might be a cunning attempt to explain away the broken headlamp and twisted grill: cover an accident with an accident.
The condition of the nearby archway suggested it had featured in some cosmetic rearrangement. But if any
trace of blood lay underneath, the lab experts would find it.
He used his mobile to call up Traffic support and reconciled himself to indefinitely standing guard.
Z collected her tape recorder from Mott's car, relocked it and returned indoors. She found the atmosphere in the upstairs sitting-room tense. Sir Arthur, seated by the window, looked ashen; Dr Parrish, hovering protectively over him, forbidding.
‘I can only say,' the man admitted in a stricken voice, ‘that it's not impossible. But I know nothing about it myself.'
Mott placed the recorder on the table beside him. ‘Tell us again about the dress. When do you last recall seeing it?'
Dr Parrish tried to intervene, but Sir Arthur was quite willing to produce what facts were available. At the end he raised his hands, palm upwards. ‘You've already spoken to Nurse Gregory. She must be able to explain better than I could. I didn't know until now that this girl had been here.'
‘The nurse has confirmed that you weren't present on the evening of Friday, June twelve. Which is why we wish to speak to everyone who was. I understand that late that night Professor Knightley called here to pick up his daughter who was in a semi-comatose state. Was he familiar with the house? It wouldn't have been easy to find for the first time in the dark.'
‘I had entertained him here twice before.'
‘With his wife, perhaps?'
‘No. He came in a group of academics interested in mathematical equations.'
Euphemism for Piggott's gambling set-up, Mott assumed. ‘He was unaccompanied, then?'
‘The second time there was a young woman with him.'
‘Do you know her name?'
‘He referred to her as Beryl. That's all I was told. She also appeared to be known to my son, but was not a family friend.'
‘So has Mrs Knightley ever been here, to your knowledge?'
‘Not — to my knowledge.'
It went on painfully, painstakingly, with Waites holding nothing back. But with every answer he was clearly more disturbed.
‘Thank you, Sir Arthur, for your help.'
‘That's all?'
‘I may need to speak with you again. Now I should like to see your son, then the two casino ushers who were present the night Chloë Knightley was brought here.'
‘I'm not sure about Neil,' the doctor put in quickly. ‘His mother's death has shaken him badly, however long expected.'
‘Is he sedated?'
She hesitated. So concerned for Arthur, she hadn't checked this morning on the boy. He could be hungover, stoned afresh or simply shattered. Anything she could offer him might well form a dangerous cocktail.
‘I should like to be present.' Waited raised a haggard face and Mott wondered again. ‘How old is he?'
‘Twenty.'
‘Legally of age. There is no requirement for a responsible adult to be present. So we'll see what he feels about it.'
Waites rose, uncertain what state the young man's room might be in, but afraid that interviewing him elsewhere - in alien territory - could provoke an unhelpful reaction.
‘I'll see how he is,' Dr Parrish offered.
‘Nancy, thank you.'
The affection in the man's voice alerted Mott's baser suspicions. Was the widower truly grieving, and would the lady doctor's death certificate be genuine? How many nasty creatures would crawl out as all the stones were turned over in this case?
Henley nick had already provided some general background: that Havelock House had been in the dead woman's
family for generations. Doubtless there had been money too on that side of the alliance. In which case Waites stood to inherit.
Mott moved across and held the curtain aside to peer down into the driveway. A blue pick-up containing a number of large potted plants had just driven up and with surprise he recognised the car parked ahead of it as Beaumont's.
As he watched, the pick-up's driver, a small man, swung down and went to the rear to unload. Mott's DS stood up from crouching in front of a silver Mercedes and went jauntily to confront the man. Through the closed window Mott was unable to hear what they said.
 
‘Mr Pimm,' Beaumont greeted the newcomer expansively.
‘What an unexpected pleasure.'
‘Mister Beaumont.' Irony wasn't the man's natural style and it came out bitterly. He wasn't unloading, just releasing the truck's rear gate. Ben Carter came shambling out of the house to take on the heavy stuff.
‘Both of you.' Beaumont beamed. ‘How very fortunate. Is Mr Piggott inside as well? It's good to play with a full deck. I see you're into horticulture.'
‘A few plants on hire to brighten up the place,' Pimm excused them.
‘A celebration with potted palms? Rather unusual for a wake, I'd have thought.'
‘Wake?'
‘You haven't heard. There's been a death in the family.'
‘Who?' demanded Pimm. Again Beaumont had the sense of the man's ears flattening against the sides of his head.
‘Her Ladyship,' Ben mumbled. ‘She passed away last night.'
‘Never met her,' Pimm grunted, relieved.
‘So Mr Piggott's little casino party may have to be postponed. Never mind. I take it you're familiar with the place. And the people. Not to mention their cars. Now why didn't
you? - mention the cars, that is, and one in particular, when you knew I was interested in Mercs.'
A sly look passed over the weasely features. ‘Didn't want to make no trouble, did I? Anyways, it's silver, not white.'
‘Much the same to look at, in a dark lane when you're leaping for your life.'
‘So you've had a dekko at it.' Pimm was probing.
‘And it seems to fit the bill. It's a tad bent. Not so much as some people I know, but enough to qualify.'
Beaumont had time to register the flash of satisfaction on the man's face before Ben broke in. ‘That happened last night. Young Mr Neil ran it into a wall. I had to get him out. His head was bleeding.'
‘In the driving seat, yes? But not over the radiator grill?' He watched them both and wondered if his bluff had come off. Pimm had frozen, ready prepared, but Ben had a weird expression of puzzlement, shaking his head.
‘Let's go indoors,' the DS suggested, ‘and I can take down your statements.'
 
Neil's ‘room' was in fact a suite with sitting-room, study and bedroom connected by broad archways. As Mott entered, the young man was seated unnaturally upright in a chair facing him with the grim-browed doctor behind, a hand on his shoulder.
‘My son, Neil,' Waites said flatly.
One glance at the pale flesh, sunken cheeks and haunted eyes gave Mott a fierce upsurge of excitement. This was it. Here was the reason for Waites' defensiveness and the woman's truculence. He would need to proceed carefully. He shook his head at Z's questioning eyes and she put away the recorder. Not now; later, in a different place.
‘Neil,' he began pleasantly, ‘we're here to talk about Chloë. Do you remember where you first met her?'
He looked up. ‘Saw her. In the library.'
‘Here, at Havelock House?'
‘He means the public library,' his father interrupted. ‘I take him there sometimes. Or he goes by taxi.'
‘So you don't drive a car, Neil?'
The young man stared back, uninterested.
‘He lost his licence after an accident eighteen months ago,' Waites explained. ‘He hasn't driven since.'
‘To your knowledge.' He turned back to Neil. ‘You drove your father's car last night, though.'
‘Going to see her.' There was a little more life in the eyes now.
‘You didn't get far. That was unfortunate. Better, perhaps, if she came to you here.'
‘Chloe -' He went quiet again, lethargic. Mott wondered if the doctor had slipped him a sedative before they met up.
‘Did you go out to her house on Sunday night? In your father's car? She was walking with a friend in the dark, wasn' t she?'
Again no reaction. Try another tack, Mott told himself. ‘A lovely girl. Did you meet her mother? Her stepmother actually.'
Neil shook his head.
‘She was lovely too,' Mott reminisced. ‘Another one with red hair, but dyed, I think.'
‘Dyed. She died,' Neil echoed. ‘Cheat, cheat!'
Mott's eyes met Z's again. She went out into the corridor and phoned for back-up to take the young man in.
 
Superintendent Yeadings received the news that Leila Knightley's killer was in the building as he strove to put order and a modicum of good grammar into DC Silver's report on his computer researches. A promising technocrat the lad might be, but basic English had apparently escaped his curriculum.
Patting his pockets before remembering that pipe and tobacco were now consigned to history, Yeadings made his way down to Interview Room I.

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