“Can’t,” said Alfie, heading off towards Bunburry’s cobbled streets. “I was never a Girl Guide.”
He hoped Marge was just being over-optimistic about invoking their detecting skills, and that Mario’s death was completely natural. It was a shock to think he had gone. He had been so enthusiastic, so full of life. But people died suddenly all the time from undiagnosed ailments. You never knew the day or the hour. Perhaps this was a wake-up call, a reminder to make the most of life while you could.
Alfie stopped, startled by his own thoughts. After Vivian died in the crash, he felt his own life was over. He simply existed, getting through one day at a time, with no hope for the future.
Was this a betrayal of Vivian, looking forward to a future without her? He shied away from the question. Right now, he needed to work out what to feed his supper guests. All three of them. Of course, it made sense for Emma to be there, if she was able to tell them anything about the police investigation. But was it another ploy on Marge’s part to try to kindle a romance? He admired Emma, while feeling slightly disconcerted by her. She exuded competence and strength, and wisdom beyond her years. She was attractive, with her dark bobbed hair, her brown eyes, a mouth that held the promise of a smile.
The warm summer was continuing: he would make refreshing Greek egg and lemon soup to start with, and then fish cakes with salad. He couldn’t risk going to the fishmonger’s, which was too close to The Horse and therefore Sasha and Sebastian. So, no cod, but he could used tinned tuna instead and perk it up with some harissa paste. No need to prepare a dessert: he still had plenty of Liz’s fudge.
He felt quite enthused as he went around the supermarket, calculating the cooking times. He carried his purchases back to Windermere Cottage and started preparing the meal. He forgot he needed more gin. And he forgot about phoning Oscar.
6. The Police Station
Sergeant Wilson sauntered into the office and plonked himself down on the chair across the desk from Emma. “Right, Hollis, what you got?”
Emma produced her notes. “Time of death is estimated at one a.m. Mario fell backwards down the steps of the Indian pavilion, hit his head on the marble, and that’s what killed him. No sign of any defensive injuries or any other injuries. So, there’s every likelihood that it was just a fall.”
“Drunk, was he?”
“He’d had a few drinks, but not enough to cause serious impairment. The paths in the park are well lit, but the pavilion’s behind all those bushes. He could just have missed his footing in the dark.”
She hesitated.
Sergeant Wilson sighed heavily. “Okay, Hollis, spit it out. You’re going to tell me it’s not just a tragic accident. Have you noticed, whenever we have trouble, it’s because of foreigners?”
“Mario Bellini came from London, Sarge.”
“Exactly! Foreigners!” The sergeant laughed heartily at his own joke. “Anyway, get on with it.”
“Just a couple of things, but I don’t think they’re relevant.”
Sergeant Wilson rested his forearms on the desk and loomed in front of her. “I don’t remember you getting promoted to sergeant, Hollis. I’ll be the judge of what’s relevant.”
“He had Alfie McAlister’s card in his pocket.”
The sergeant sat back triumphantly. “I might have known McAlister was mixed up in this. Okay, bring him in and we’ll get a statement from him.”
“That could be seen as a bit heavy-handed, Sarge. We don’t want to be accused of police harassment. I’ll have a chat with him as soon as possible.”
“A chat? Sounds cosy. Fancy him, do you? ‘Tell me, Police Constable Hollis, what first attracted you to multi-millionaire Alfie McAlister?’” He laughed again.
Emma flushed. “Of course I don’t fancy him,” she muttered.
“You said there were a couple of things. What other piece of so-called irrelevant information are you concealing from me?”
“It seems during the evening, there was a bit of an altercation between Mario Bellini and William.”
“Care to explain that in plain English, Hollis?”
“William was upset. He thought Mister Bellini was being a bit too friendly towards Carlotta. He swung a punch at him.”
“Now we’re getting to it! Yeah, that makes sense. The Italian bloke was a gigolo. Stands to reason he was going to come to grief at the hands of a cheated husband.” He leaned across the desk and snatched up Emma’s notes. He scanned them quickly. “Well, well, well. Were you planning on telling me about this?”
“Of course, Sarge. I just hadn’t got around to it yet.”
“So, just beside the Indian pavilion, the butt of a cigarette. Capstan unfiltered. Not very popular these days with everyone so worried about their health. Difficult to come by, as well. In fact, I only know one person in Bunburry who smokes this particular cigarette – orders them in bulk, I believe. William, the friendly publican. I lay you odds it’ll be his DNA on that cigarette.”
“Sarge, you can’t believe that William’s a murderer,” Emma protested. “He gets a bit overwrought sometimes, but he’s not capable of killing anybody.”
“You’ve missed your calling, Hollis. You should have been a social worker.” He threw the papers back across the desk at her. “And stop worrying. I know you country folk are all inbred and he’s probably your uncle or your second cousin, but there’s not a jury in the land that will convict. Once they see it’s a crime of passion, they’ll let him off. Loss of control, that’s a good defence. You can’t have other blokes messing with your wife.”
“I’ll have a quiet word with him in The Horse, get his statement.”
Sergeant Wilson stood up, his bulk intimidating. “You’re going to The Horse, all right, but not for a quiet chat. We’re bringing them in, William and Carlotta.”
“What, both of them?” said Emma in disbelief.
“That’s not a problem, is it? We’ve got two cells, after all.”
“No, I just don’t understand why you’d want to arrest Carlotta.”
“Dear oh dear, Hollis, you really don’t have the right instincts for the police. You have to consider all the possibilities. It could have been William. But it could also have been Carlotta. Gigolos, they’re always looking out for the next sugar mummy. He’s getting it on with someone else, Carlotta gets upset.”
Reluctantly, Emma had to allow that this was a possibility. Even the cursory interviews she had conducted revealed that every Bunburry female who had met Mario was at least halfway in love with him. Could Carlotta have killed him in a jealous rage?
“Or,” said Wilson, warming to his theme, “after the fight, she realises her marriage is on the line. The Horse is a nice little business for her. So, she goes for a romantic stroll in the moonlight with her fancy man, takes him up to the pavilion, gets him to lean in for a smooch and –” Sergeant Wilson thumped his fist down on the desk, making Emma jump. “Problem solved.”
“Bellini was a big guy. I’m not sure Carlotta could have pushed him down the steps.” Even before she said it, she knew that Carlotta could have done it perfectly easily if Mario had been caught off-balance.
“You’re forgetting the cigarette butt. No, it wasn’t just her. Carlotta and William were in it together. Why would Bellini have gone out in the middle of the night with William? She lured him to the pavilion where William was waiting for him.” He sat back in his chair. “I don’t even know why I’m discussing this with you. You’re here to do as you’re told, not to argue. Speaking of which, get me a coffee. And then we’ll go off to The Horse to make a couple of arrests.”
Emma wondered if one day she would be arrested for battering Sergeant Wilson to death with a jar of Nescafe instant. She kept reminding herself that he would retire some day. And then she reflected that his replacement could be even worse.
When she came back with the coffee, he to
ok his time drinking it while flicking through the sports pages. At last he stood up and threw her the car keys. “Treat for you, Hollis, I’ll let you drive.”
In The Horse’s car park, Emma pulled up close to the back entrance to the pub. She got out, put on her hat, and headed for the door.
“Oi, Hollis, where are you going? We’re not tradesmen.”
She halted. “But I thought – aren’t we going to do this discreetly?”
“That’s your trouble, you don’t think. We’re going in through the proper door, and we’re arresting them in front of their customers. Maybe that will dissuade anyone else from doing a spot of murdering.”
It certainly didn’t dissuade her – quite the opposite. She wondered whether she, William, Carlotta and the customers could band together to do away with Sergeant Wilson, just like in that Agatha Christie story. Instead, she followed him into the pub.
Carlotta was polishing glasses at one end of the bar while William was checking the optics at the other. They were studiously ignoring one another.
“William Simmons,” Sergeant Harold Wilson declaimed, “you are under arrest on suspicion of the murder of Mario Bellini. You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.”
The silence was broken by the sound of shattering glass. Carlotta had dropped the tumbler she was polishing.
As if that was a cue, consternation erupted among the clientele. Chairs scraped back on the wooden floor, glasses crashed on to tables, voices were raised in protest.
But one voice sounded over the others. “Carlotta Simmons, you are under arrest on suspicion of the murder of Mario Bellini. You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.”
Carlotta screamed and fled through the door to the kitchen.
“Get her, Hollis,” said Sergeant Wilson. “I’ll deal with William.”
Emma pursued Carlotta, apprehension flooding through her. The kitchen. There would be knives in the kitchen. She had been stabbed once, something she had never told Aunt Liz and Aunt Marge. She initially thought she had been punched and she would never forget the horror of seeing the blood. Fortunately, the blade missed her vital organs, but she had still been hospitalised. She got away with it by claiming to Aunt Liz that she had been forced to take leave because she had worked too much overtime and had gone up to London to visit friends. Aunt Liz was always prepared to think the worst of Sergeant Wilson and police bureaucracy.
As Emma went through the kitchen’s swing doors, she eased the baton from her duty belt, ready to parry an attack. But there was no sign of Carlotta. Emma followed the sound of sobbing to the small area the staff used for rest periods – far from threatening violence, Carlotta had collapsed in the arms of her mother-in-law.
“What’s going on?” demanded Edith, whose dazed look suggested she had just woken up.
Emma replaced the baton and said in her calmest voice: “Everything’s all right. Just a few routine questions down at the station. Come on, Carlotta. The sooner we go, the sooner you’ll get back.
“Something’s happened,” said Edith. “What’s happened?”
Carlotta started babbling incoherently in her native Italian.
“Come on, Carlotta,” repeated Emma, taking her by the arm. Carlotta gave Edith a stricken look, then meekly allowed herself to be led out to the police car. Emma put her hand on Carlotta’s head, guiding her into the back seat beside William. He was staring straight ahead like an aristocrat heading for the guillotine. Carlotta looked down at the floor.
“Keys,” said Wilson impatiently to Emma. “I’ll drive.”
The married couple exchanged neither a look nor a word on the way to the station. The sergeant decided that Carlotta was to be interviewed first, presumably, thought Emma, because she seemed more vulnerable. William was left to languish in the cells.
Wilson rapidly read Carlotta her rights and she blinked at him uncomprehendingly.
“Do you understand, Carlotta?” asked Emma. “You have the right to free legal advice. Do you want a lawyer?”
Wilson glowered at her. “Of course she understands,” he snapped. “You don’t want a lawyer, love, do you?”
Emma wasn’t prepared to let Carlotta be browbeaten. “You’re entitled to a lawyer, and it won’t cost you anything. Would you like one?”
Carlotta gave a small shake of the head.
“The woman knows her own mind, Hollis. Stop harassing her,” Wilson growled.
But when the interview began, Emma wasn’t convinced that Carlotta even knew what day of the week it was, she looked so bewildered.
“Tell me about your relationship with Mario Bellini,” Sergeant Wilson began.
“Relationship?” Carlotta repeated.
“Were you friends?”
“Yes, he was friendly.”
“Good friends? You liked him?”
“Yes, I liked him. He was a nice man.”
“Did you like him a lot?”
“Yes, I liked him a lot.”
Emma cringed inwardly. Carlotta was damning herself further with every reply. Even the most inexperienced duty solicitor would have rescued her before now.
“You talked to him a lot?”
“Yes.”
“What did you talk about?”
“Ice cream.”
“Sorry?”
“Ice cream,” repeated Carlotta more loudly. “He wanted to open his business here in Bunburry. He hoped we would sell his ice cream. He told me all about it, how everything was natural, the finest ingredients. Alfie said it was all true, it was the best ice cream he had ever tasted.”
“Never mind McAlister,” snapped Sergeant Wilson. “What else did you talk about?”
“Our families. He said his parents came to London from Bari. That’s where my uncle and aunt lived, and my cousin was married in the cathedral, and I told him all about the wedding and how –”
“Yes, okay, we get the picture, what else did you talk about?”
Carlotta racked her brains. “I think I told him about the train journey we took to Venice when I was small, and coming out of the station to see all the water.”
“Did you arrange to meet him later?”
At last Carlotta realised where this was heading.
“No, of course not!”
“You’ve just told us you liked him a lot.”
“Not like that!”
“Were you having an affair?”
Emma saw a sudden trace of alarm in Carlotta’s face.
The landlady tried to say something but made a small choking noise. She swallowed. “Can I have some water, please?”
Emma made to stand up, but Wilson motioned her to stay where she was. “In a minute. Were you having an affair with Mario Bellini?”
“No!”
It was emphatic.
“I’m going to ask you again, and I want the truth. Were you having an affair with Mario Bellini?”
“No! No. No.”
Whatever had just happened, Carlotta was back in control of herself.
Sergeant Wilson shifted his bulk on the chair. “Hollis, get Mrs Simmons some water.”
“It’s okay, I’m okay now.”
The sergeant resumed the attack. “Your husband thought you were having an affair.”
“That’s nonsense.”
“Nonsense that you were having an affair or nonsense that he thought you were having an affair?”
“I don’t know what he thought.”
“Oh, I think everyone in The Horse knew what he thought. He said –” The sergeant consulted his notes. “He said,
‘Get away from my wife.’ And then he tried to punch Mr Bellini. Now the late Mr Bellini.”
“My husband is a stupid man,” said Carlotta brokenly. “A stupid, stupid man.”
Emma wondered just how stupid William might have been.
“Is that so?” said the sergeant. “So, you didn’t arrange to meet Mario later that night?”
“No, how many times to I have to tell you no?”
“Did you in fact meet him later that night?”
“No, of course not!”
“All right, let’s just establish the last time you saw him.”
“When he went to his room after William tried to hit him.”
“That’s very helpful.” Harold Wilson gave a smile that was presumably supposed to reassure but which Emma reckoned would send small children screaming for their mothers. “So, Mario’s gone off to his room. Then what happened?”
“Everyone was talking, staring at us – it was terrible. I just behaved like everything was normal until closing time. And then, once the doors were closed, I told William what I thought of him.”
“So, you had a row.”
“Yes.” Her tone suggested it had been quite some row.
“Did he walk out?”
She frowned. “No, of course not, it was after eleven o’clock.”
“So, he was with you all night?”
Her eyes flickered to the side. “Yes … no.”
“Which is it,” snapped the sergeant, “yes or no?”
Her colour rose. “He was at home all night, but not with me. After the row, I told him he was sleeping on the couch in the living room.”
“And he was there all night?”
“Of course. Where else would he be?”
“There’s a smoking ban in pubs now,” said Sergeant Wilson conversationally.
Carlotta gave a bemused shrug.
“Your husband smokes. Remind me what kind of cigarettes he likes?”
“Capstan. But I don’t understand. He’s not breaking the smoking ban. He never smokes in the pub. I don’t even let him smoke in the house. He has to go outside.”
Bunburry--Death of a Ladies' Man Page 6