The sergeant pounced. “So, he could have gone out for a smoke?”
“I suppose.”
“Where was he between half-past midnight and half-past one in the morning?” Wilson thundered.
“I … I don’t know.”
“Thank you, Mrs Simmons. You’ve been very helpful. Interview terminated, two fifteen p.m.” He leaned forward and switched off the tape recorder. “I think that’s all we need from you for the moment. Just don’t leave the Bunburry area in case we need to talk to you again. Hollis here will give you back your belongings.”
Although Carlotta surely realised that she was now free to go, she didn’t move from her seat. “You don’t think William killed Mario?” she whispered. “The stupid, stupid man.”
Once she had been dispatched back to The Horse, the sergeant sent Emma to escort William to the interview room. He looked paler than usual, and the lines on his face looked deeper.
“What’s Carlotta been saying?” he asked apprehensively as they walked along the corridor.
Did that mean Carlotta knew more than she had revealed? She had sounded candid enough. Or was Sergeant Wilson’s theory correct, that they had actually been in it together, and William was worried in case his wife had grassed him up?
Emma acted as though he had never spoken. “Just in here,” she said, opening the door to the interview room. “Take a seat.”
Sergeant Wilson switched on the tape, recorded that he and Constable Hollis were present, and read the suspect his rights. William also passed up the opportunity of a lawyer, although Emma was satisfied that he knew what he was doing. Was it surprising that he didn’t want someone in his corner when being interrogated by a couple of police officers? Or had he calculated that he looked more innocent without one?
“This bloke Mario Bellini, you didn’t like him,” said Sergeant Wilson.
“No,” William admitted.
“But your wife’s just told us that she liked him. A lot.”
William’s jaw tightened. “That’s her business.”
“But you seem to have made it your business. You picked a fight with Mr Bellini. That didn’t work out well for you, so you organised a rematch.”
“How could I have? I never saw him again.”
“Sure about that?”
“Of course I am.”
“So, what happened after the fight?”
“Nothing. He went off to his room. It was almost closing time.”
“So, closing time. You and the lovely Carlotta kissed and made up.”
William flushed deep red. “Not exactly. I decided I would sleep on the couch.”
“That was your decision? I got the impression it was your wife’s. Chucked out of your own bed by your wife, who’s carrying on with someone behind your back – that’s enough to make a man very, very angry.”
William’s jaw clenched but he said nothing.
“So, you took yourself off to your couch and fell asleep.”
“No. I went out for a smoke to calm myself down.”
“Where did you go?”
“The Victoria Park.”
Sergeant Wilson leaned back in his chair and exhaled. “That’s the first thing you’ve said that I believe. And you know why? We found one of your cigarette butts. Where do you think that was?”
“Beside the Indian pavilion,” said William sullenly.
“Exactly. And what time were you there?”
“No idea. Yes. Yes, I do know. I looked at my watch when I got back and it was about half twelve.”
Sergeant Wilson grimaced. “You’re a bit out with your timing. You were there at one a.m., which is when you killed Mario Bellini by pushing him down the pavilion steps.”
“I didn’t!” William shouted. “I never saw him. I came back through the little lane that comes into the car park. I’m sure there were some people walking along the main road – three people – find them, they could have seen me.”
“You’re sure you saw some people? I’ll tell you what I’m sure of, William – you murdered Mario Bellini.” The sergeant leaned forward. “Didn’t you?”
William folded his arms across his chest. “I want that lawyer,” he said.
7. Dinner at Alfie’s
Alfie settled Liz and Marge in the parlour with pre-dinner G&Ts.
“Emma should be here soon,” said Marge. “Then we’ll find out what sort of mess Harry Wilson’s making of it, and we can take it from there.”
“How steep are the steps of the Indian pavilion?” asked Alfie. “How easy would it be to fall down them?”
“I thought men were the ones who were supposed to be spatially aware,” said Marge. “Just visualise it and work it out.”
“I haven’t actually been to the park – well, not since I was about ten.”
The ladies gawped at him. “You’ve been in Bunburry since November and you’ve never been to the park?” said Marge. “That’s impossible. You can’t miss it.”
“I’ve missed it on purpose. I’ve … sort of got a thing about it.”
He expected Marge to make a caustic remark, but instead she looked concerned. “I’ve just been reading a very interesting article about that. Researchers found that many people avoided parks because they were afraid they would be attacked. But these were parks in cities. I can quite understand that you would want to avoid all those dangerous places in London, like Hyde Park and Regent’s Park, but honestly, Alfie, our Victoria Park is perfectly safe.”
Alfie had spent many pleasant afternoons in London’s green spaces, but he knew he would never overcome the ladies’ prejudices about the hazards of urban life.
“It’s Victoria Park that I have the problem with,” he admitted. It had been during the school holidays, when he came to stay with his grandparents, and rampaged round the countryside with the local boys. Except no rampaging was allowed in Victoria Park. Oi, you lot, can’t you read? KEEP OFF THE GRASS!
“Or rather, the park keeper.”
Marge chuckled. “Oh, I remember him. He was ferocious! You had to keep to those gravel paths – if you touched so much a blade of his carefully tended grass, he would go berserk.”
“We used to run through the park as a dare, and he would chase us. He had a stick with a spike on it. The other boys told me that if he caught you, he pinned you to the notice board with the spike. Once, he actually grabbed me – I was so terrified that I twisted myself free and my T-shirt ripped. I got hell from my grandmother when I went home. And I never went near the park again.”
“The other boys really weren’t very nice to you,” said Liz sympathetically.
“They knew you would believe anything,” muttered Marge. “The pointed stick was for collecting litter.”
“I know that now,” said Alfie.
“So, the Indian pavilion,” said Liz. “Part of the 19th century Orientalist trend in architecture, but unusual in being marble rather than cast iron. An ornate dome, six slender pillars, pierced marblework railings, and then five steps. About three feet, I would think – what’s that in new money, a metre?”
“Liz gives lectures on it,” said Marge with pride.
“I don’t remember anyone ever falling there,” Liz added. “Apart from Kevin Fletcher who climbed up on top of the dome and fell off and broke his arm.”
It was Kevin Fletcher who had warned Alfie he would get pinned to the notice board. Perhaps the broken leg was karma.
The childhood memory prompted him towards another question. “Before Emma gets here,” Alfie said hesitantly, “I wondered, did you know my father?”
“Of course,” said Marge. “He was such a good-looking boy. Him and your mum, they made such a lovely couple. It was a beautiful day for the wedding. We were all there – that’s how we did things in those days, the wedding in the parish church and then the reception
in the village hall, with everybody mucking in. None of this ridiculous spending thousands of pounds on one single day. Honestly, these bridezillas, it’s not the wedding day that matters, it’s all the time you spend together after that.”
“Quite so,” murmured Alfie.
Marge had the grace to look embarrassed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think.”
“That’s your trouble, Margaret,” said Liz in the sharpest tone Alfie had ever heard her use. “Perhaps you should think a bit more from now on.”
“It’s all right,” said Alfie. “It doesn’t upset me, I’m just curious. My mother didn’t keep anything of his, I’ve never seen any wedding photos, or any photos at all. She didn’t like talking about him. I just know he left before I was born. All I’ve got is my birth certificate with his name, Calum McAlister.”
“We didn’t know him well at all,” said Liz with a look that seemed to dare Marge to contradict her. “He wasn’t from Bunburry.”
“I’ve always taken it that he was Scottish,” said Alfie.
“Presumably, in the dim and distant past, but his family lived on the other side of Oxford. We didn’t know anything about him until he and your mother started courting.”
Courting. He pondered the old-fashioned word. Had Calum McAlister sought her father’s permission to take her out? Had he arrived at the door wearing a suit and tie, carrying a box of chocolates? Had he been in love with her?
“Did you like him?” he asked abruptly.
Marge opened her mouth, but it was Liz who spoke. “As I said, dear, we really didn’t know him.”
“Did Aunt Augusta like him?”
“I couldn’t say, dear, it wasn’t something we discussed.”
The instincts that had stood Alfie in such good stead in business were still with him. He wasn’t sure whether Liz was lying, but she certainly wasn’t being straightforward.
“Do you have any idea why he left my mother?”
She started answering almost before he had finished the question. “No. Alfie dear, that was a private matter between your mother and father. You have to accept some things just as they are.”
This time, she was definitely lying.
The Hallelujah Chorus broke out, signalling someone at the door, and Alfie saw a look of relief pass over Liz’s face.
He opened the door to Emma. She was wearing her police uniform rather than the casual clothes he had expected.
“You really need a drink,” he exclaimed.
She smiled crookedly. “That obvious, huh? I’d love one, but I can’t – I’ve just been allowed out briefly and then I’m back on duty.”
The Bunburry police station kept regular office hours. “But it’s after seven. Surely you’ve finished for the day?”
She gave a faint groan. “Just let me come in and I’ll tell you all about it.”
“Sorry. Of course.” He stood back to let her into the hall. “Go straight to the kitchen – that’s where we’re eating.”
She breathed in. “Whatever it is, it smells gorgeous.”
He looked round the parlour door. “Ladies? May I invite you to the dining table? The Bunburry Quadrilateral is now complete.”
“Very funny,” snapped Marge. She turned to Liz. “He doesn’t like us being called the Bunburry Triangle.”
“I’m not surprised, dear. Neither do I.”
“Well, will one of you kindly come up with a better name?” Grumbling, she took her seat in the brightly tiled kitchen.
The chicken broth was on a low heat on the hob, and everything was ready to make the egg and lemon mixture.
“It’ll take another five minutes for the soup – let me cut you some bread. Emma, would you like some elderflower cordial?”
Marge got up again. “You get on with the soup. Emma, you sit down and relax, and I’ll get your drink. Liz, you slice the bread.”
Aunt Augusta’s lifelong friends were as at home in her kitchen as he was – possibly more so. He imagined Liz, Marge and his aunt sitting at this very table, discussing his father, Aunt Augusta’s brother-in-law. Why wouldn’t Liz talk about him and why was she so keen to silence Marge?
He whisked the eggs into a froth while Liz methodically sliced the fresh-baked farmhouse loaf and brought the farmhouse butter out of the fridge.
Gradually, carefully, he added the lemon juice and chicken stock, then stirred it into the broth.
Marge dropped ice cubes into a large glass of elderflower cordial and handed it to Emma.
“Watch and learn,” she said, indicating Alfie as he ladled the soup into four bowls. “This is called cooking.”
Emma shook her head. “Way too complicated. Opening a bag of crisps is much easier.”
Alfie pulled back the bowl of soup he had been about to give her. “I can go out and get you some crisps if you’d prefer.”
She reached for the bowl. “No, now you’ve gone to all this trouble, I feel obliged to eat it.”
“It’s not going to any trouble,” said Alfie, passing her the bread. “I enjoy cooking. I find it relaxing.”
“Relaxing,” said Emma. “Now there’s a thing.”
“So why are you still on duty?”
“What?” said Liz indignantly. “You should have finished hours ago. What’s that dreadful sergeant lumbered you with now?”
“The night shift,” said Emma.
“But you don’t have a night shift.”
“We do when there’s a prisoner in the cells. Mmm, Alfie, this soup is excellent.”
“It’s Greek,” said Alfie. “Called avgolemono, egg and lemon.”
“Never mind that,” said Marge, “although it is very good soup. Why is there a prisoner in the cells?”
“William has no alibi for the time of Mario’s death and admits having been at the locus. He belatedly called for help from the duty solicitor, but it has to be said that the duty solicitor is total rubbish and failed to make any sort of case for William being let out. I could have done better myself and then I might have had the night off.”
“At least William’s a credible suspect after that rumpus in the bar,” sniffed Marge. “I was convinced your sergeant would think it was the Mafia.”
“Oh, don’t.” Emma buried her face in her hands. “We went through that after Debbie had told him who Mario was.” She adopted the gruff voice she used to mimic the sergeant. “Bloke’s called Mario Bellini. The clue’s in the name, Hollis. I’ll lay odds it’s a Mafia hit.”
Then she mimicked herself, childishly timid: “I’m not sure, Sarge. Wouldn’t a Mafia hit be a bit more … obvious?”
Back to the gruffness: “How can it be more obvious than the bloke being dead?”
Alfie couldn’t help laughing. Her mimicry was brilliant.
“You’ll be laughing on the other side of your face in a moment,” she warned him. “You’re in the frame as well.”
“I am?”
“Your card was in Mario’s pocket.”
“There’s a perfectly innocent explanation, officer. Mario was going to send me some ice cream. I’m quite sorry that that won’t be happening. It really is excellent ice cream.”
“Alfie!” scolded Liz.
“Sorry.”
While the others finished the soup, he took the salad out of the fridge and busied himself heating the home-made fish cakes in the frying pan.
“It’s completely preposterous, arresting William,” said Marge.
“I don’t know,” said Alfie slowly. “There are a couple of things that still bother me.”
“Do tell,” said Emma. “And hurry up with those fish cakes – I don’t have much time.”
Alfie removed the soup bowls and served the fish cakes. “Mario and Carlotta were talking away to one another in Italian, and Mario wouldn’t tell me what she said. Why the secrecy? And when
William was going on about Mario, I said that was just how Italians were, and I thought he was going to attack Mario there and then, if not me.”
“Oh, Alfie!” gasped Liz. “You didn’t.”
“What?” said Alfie, perplexed.
“Oh dear. Carlotta had an affair about twenty years ago. With an Italian. It was all quite dreadful. She and William sorted it out, but he’s terrified that she’s going to leave him. Especially for an Italian.”
“I wish you hadn’t told me that,” said Emma through a mouthful of fish cake. “I can hardly unhear it. I was at Carlotta’s interview and I’m pretty sure there was nothing gone on between her and Mario. But if William thought there was – well, you can understand him deciding to get rid of the opposition. By the way, Alfie, top fish cakes. They’ve got quite a kick.”
“That’s the harissa,” said Alfie.
“We’re supposed to be getting William off, not building up the case against him,” said Marge to Liz.
“Only if he didn’t do it,” said Emma. “Although it does upset me to think that the sarge may be right for once and William may just have snapped.”
She had wolfed down the two fishcakes Alfie had given her. He took her plate and added another which had been left warming gently. She gave him the thumbs up.
“What I’d really like to do is interview everyone who was in the pub that night, especially those who were staying in The Horse,” she said. “The soundproofing between the rooms isn’t that great, and somebody might have heard something. Why was Mario out in the park in the middle of the night anyway? He might have got a phone call.”
“I know one lot of people who are staying at The Horse – Sasha and Sebastian,” said Alfie heavily.
“Alfie’s friends,” explained Marge.
“Acquaintances,” corrected Alfie.
“Oh, yes, the London couple with the poncy names,” said Emma. “Carlotta told me all about them when I spoke to her this morning. She was so excited about them, their style, their money, their sophistication – the kind of guests she always dreamed of. The poor thing had no idea she was about to be arrested on suspicion of murder and that her husband would end up in the cells overnight.” She sighed. “Bad things come in threes. I suppose the first bad thing was her star guests checking out early.”
Bunburry--Death of a Ladies' Man Page 7