‘Not at all.’ She patted a bulge in her skirt pocket. ‘I was out of cigarettes. And, to be honest, I wanted an excuse to get out of the house for a while. I loathe being cooped up with nothing to do.’
Thanet admired her honesty. He knew that death imposes a strait-jacket of conventions and inactivity on those who are left behind. An unspoken conspiracy, born of love and desire to alleviate the burden of grief, frequently exists to prevent the bereaved from performing even the simplest task, like making a cup of tea. Many people, of course, both enjoy and appreciate such attention, but some find the strain well-nigh intolerable. Few, however, can bring themselves openly to admit it.
‘I’m glad to see that you’re feeling better today. Mrs Haywood told us about your migraine attack. Oh, sorry. This is Detective-Sergeant Lineham.’
She nodded a greeting at Lineham and said, ‘Much better, thank God. Sometimes I’m laid up for days.’
‘We were on our way back to the house … Do you feel up to answering a few questions?’
‘Yes, of course.’
Thanet opened the gate and stood back for her to precede him. She turned right, followed the path along the fence for a short distance and then cut off to the left. Thanet and Lineham walked behind her in single file and they all emerged eventually onto the drive, opposite the north side of the main house and about seventy-five yards from the coach house.
Beatrix Haywood was crossing the open space between the two houses, carrying a large cardboard box overflowing with clothes. They all converged at the coach-house door.
Lineham took the box from her.
‘Thanks,’ she said, puffing slightly. Her cheeks were pink and there was a sheen of perspiration on her forehead. Today she was wearing a shapeless dress made out of what looked like sacking, several strings of multicoloured beads and long, dangling earrings. ‘It’s surprisingly heavy. More jumble,’ she added as she let them in. ‘Just put it with the rest of the stuff, will you? The vicar’s supposed to be picking it up before lunch.’
There were three more boxes lined up in the hallway.
‘You’ll take some coffee, Inspector?’ said Daphne. ‘I could do with a cup myself.’
‘That would be very welcome, thank you.’
Without a word Mrs Haywood disappeared into the kitchen. Mr Tarrant may have thought that it was rash of Daphne to offer a home to her dead fiancé’s mother, thought Thanet, but he suspected that Daphne had known what she was doing. Good domestic help is like gold dust these days: expensive and difficult to find. A devoted, unpaid housekeeper is a prize indeed.
Daphne led the two men into the sitting room and they all sat down. The paintings on the walls appealed to Thanet even less this morning, their only distinction being that so many of them hung in one room. He wondered how Jocelyn Haywood had managed to secure the commission for the Linacre Nursery catalogue in the first place.
‘Now, how can I help you?’ she said.
‘It’s fairly simple, really,’ said Thanet. ‘We’re trying to build up a picture of everyone’s movements yesterday afternoon. There are just a few routine questions we’d like to put to you.’ He glanced at Lineham. Take over.
It didn’t take long for Daphne to confirm what Mrs Haywood had told them. She had gone to work in the morning as usual and during the afternoon had begun to feel unwell. By four o’clock she knew she was starting a migraine attack and had decided to go home. She had finished up one or two urgent tasks before leaving the nursery at around twenty past four, and had arrived home at about twenty to five.
‘When I got here I went straight to bed.’
Mrs Haywood came in with a tray. Only three cups, Thanet noticed.
Daphne smiled up at her as Mrs Haywood handed her the coffee. ‘Thank you, Beatrix.’ She patted Mrs Haywood’s hand and said, ‘Of course, Beatrix is wonderful when I have one of my attacks. I don’t know what I’d do without her.’
Mrs Haywood gave a gratified smile.
‘Beatrix, you’ve only brought three cups,’ said Daphne. ‘Aren’t you having any?’
‘I …’
‘I know, you’ve already had one,’ said Daphne with a little smile. ‘But I’m sure you could do with another.’
‘I won’t be long,’ said Beatrix in a stifled voice. She hurried out.
Thanet had watched this little exchange with interest. What, exactly, did it signify? Was Daphne perhaps ashamed to see Mrs Haywood behaving like a servant and apparently expecting to be treated as one, in front of outsiders? Or was this self-confident, capable woman more vulnerable than she looked, and in need of moral support?
‘Did you see anyone about, when you arrived home?’ asked Lineham.
Daphne frowned, then shook her head. ‘No. And even if I had, I don’t suppose it would have registered. At that stage all I could think of was lying down in a cool, dark room.’
‘What about later on?’
She shook her head. ‘Sorry, no. I can see you’re not a migraine sufferer, Sergeant. If you were you’d know that during an attack you’re pretty well deaf and blind to anything else.’
‘So when did you hear of your sister’s death?’ said Thanet.
Mrs Haywood came back into the room with a cup of coffee and sat down on an upright chair near Lineham, glancing apprehensively at his notebook.
Daphne grimaced. ‘Some time during the evening. I’ve no idea when, exactly. I think Beatrix would have preferred to wait to tell me until the worst of the attack was over, wouldn’t you, Bea? But during one of my sorties to the bathroom I happened to glance out of the window and see that the place was crawling with police, so …’
‘Sorry to interrupt,’ said Lineham. ‘but I thought you said that at that stage you were virtually deaf and blind …’
‘Aha,’ said Daphne theatrically. ‘Ze vitness contradicts herself.’ Then, in her normal voice, ‘Sorry to disappoint you, Sergeant, but I think you will have to agree that it’s one thing to register that your garden is overrun with police, another to notice a given individual at a given time …’ She waited for Lineham’s nod before saying, ‘Anyway, at that point I naturally asked her what was going on. So … so she told me.’
Suddenly there was a tremor in her voice, a huskiness in her throat. It was the first hint of grief she had displayed.
If only he could see her eyes, thought Thanet.
‘You were fond of your sister, Miss Linacre?’ he said. He could see himself reflected in her dark glasses, a distorted little mannikin with bulging eyes in an elongated pale oval of a face.
Daphne shrugged. ‘She was my sister, the only blood relation I had left.’ The moment of weakness had passed and she was in control of herself again. She glanced at Mrs Haywood. ‘Beatrix told me of your suspicion that Nerine’s death was no accident, and frankly, the idea wasn’t too much of a shock. To put it bluntly, the way she carried on, she was asking for it.’
‘You think one of her lovers, past or present, was responsible?’
Daphne shrugged. ‘It would seem to be the obvious answer, wouldn’t you agree? Crime passionnel and all that.’
‘Did you have anyone special in mind?’
‘Not really, no. But I’m sure you won’t have to look far.’
Perhaps you could help us out with some names?’
‘Sorry, no. I’m afraid my sister’s grubby little affairs had no interest for me.’ She brushed an imaginary piece of fluff off her skirt, as if trying to erase the memory of Nerine’s never-ending string of lovers.
‘You do realise, Miss Linacre, that most crimes of this nature are carried out by a member of the family?’
‘I have a great respect for statistics, Inspector, but they can be misleading. If that is an indirect way of asking if I suspect Roland of having done it, or Damon, even, then you’re barking up the wrong tree. And as for myself …’ Daphne shrugged. ‘Well, I can’t pretend Nerine and I were bosom pals, because we weren’t, but all I can say is, I really cannot see why I should sudd
enly decide to shove her off her balcony for no apparent reason. After all, if there had been bad blood between us I’d never have come to live here in the first place. It wasn’t as though I was hard up, I could have bought a house anywhere I liked.’
This was unanswerable.
‘You’ll make up your own minds, of course, but let me tell you this …’ Daphne leaned forward, the huskiness back in her voice. ‘My mother died when I was born. Nerine was only three, but I can still remember … She was mother and sister to me, all through my childhood. She looked after me, watched over me, and I adored her. I’d have done anything for her. Anything.’ She glanced away, out of the window, as if looking into the past and seeking to recapture the intensity of that passionate childhood devotion. Then she sighed, shrugged. ‘Things changed, of course, as we grew up. Our interests, our tastes were so different … And I can’t pretend to have approved of the way she played around with men …’
Briefly, there was an ugly, bitter twist to Daphne’s mouth. Inspired, perhaps, by jealousy, thought Thanet, the jealousy of a plain spinster unfortunate enough to have lost her one and only suitor by a cruel twist of fate, for a beautiful older sister who all her life had had only to crook her little finger for men to come running after her?
Daphne shrugged again. ‘But there we are. That was her affair and didn’t affect me in the slightest. I had my own life to live. I enjoy my work, get a lot of satisfaction out of it, and Bea and I get along like a house on fire, don’t we, Bea?’
Mrs Haywood gave a quick, nervous smile and cleared her throat. ‘Oh, yes, we do,’ she said.
‘So I’m sorry, Inspector,’ said Daphne. ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to look elsewhere for your murderer – if there is one.’
‘You have no further suggestions to make?’
‘Only the advice I gave you earlier. Cherchez l’homme.’
At the door Thanet hesitated. ‘You mentioned Damon just now … He hasn’t turned up yet and I was wondering … Have you any idea where he’s gone?’
Daphne shook her head. ‘Sorry, no … You mean, he hasn’t even rung Roland, to say when he’ll be back?’
‘Not so far.’
‘Oh. Oh, dear.’ For the first time her composure was shaken, and she glanced at Beatrix Haywood, who had moved up to stand close behind her. ‘That’s not like him. I hope he’s all right … My God, it’s only just occurred to me … You mean, he doesn’t even know his mother’s dead yet?’
‘It looks that way,’ said Thanet.
‘Poor boy,’ said Beatrix. Her lips were trembling and she put her hand up to her mouth.
‘With any luck he’ll turn up soon,’ said Thanet, hating the note of false reassurance in his voice. ‘But I thought I ought to warn you – if he’s not back by late afternoon, we might have to put out an appeal, on TVS. Anyway, if either of you comes up with an idea as to where he might be, let me know, will you?’
‘Of course.’
Outside, Lineham said, ‘Not much sisterly devotion there now, is there, whatever she says about the past.’
‘True. But lack of love is different from positive hatred. She made a good point, I thought, when she said she wouldn’t have come to live in the coach house if there’d been ill feeling between them. And it’s difficult to see why, after all these years, she should suddenly decide to come home from work in the middle of the afternoon and shove her sister off a balcony.’
‘She’d be capable of it, though, don’t you think?’
‘If she had a strong enough motive, yes. But there’s been no hint of any quarrels between them. They seemed to lead such separate lives, I can’t really see what could have been such a burning issue between them.’
‘What now, sir?’
‘Mmm?’ Thanet was abstracted. He had just thought of someone else he would like to interview, but he wasn’t going to mention it to Lineham yet, not until he’d mulled the idea over for a little while longer. But it could prove very interesting.
He smiled with satisfaction. Yes, very interesting indeed.
TWELVE
Thanet felt like a schoolboy playing truant, an especially delicious sensation after the long and tedious afternoon.
Conscientiously, he and Lineham had spent hours catching up on the reports which had come in, checking and crosschecking all details which could conceivably have any significance.
The most promising item of information was that ‘Halo’ Buzzard had been released from prison the previous week. Was it possible that the solution to the case was going to fall into Thanet’s lap? Stranger things had happened. Thanet had at once set in train extensive enquiries to trace Buzzard’s movements and especially to find out if he had been seen in the area.
Daphne Linacre’s story seemed to check out. Her secretary said that although Miss Linacre had been in good spirits most of the previous day, around ten past four she had called the girl into her office to say that she had begun to feel ill and had decided to go home. This was not unusual. Miss Linacre would have a migraine attack once every three or four months, and they usually seemed to descend with very little warning. No, nothing had happened to upset Miss Linacre, so far as she knew. No unusual letters, or phone calls … Phone calls? Miss Linacre had had several in the preceding half an hour, three business calls and one from Mrs Haywood, to be precise.
Thanet rang Beatrix Haywood. Yes, she had rung Daphne at around four o’clock, but she hadn’t mentioned it because she hadn’t thought it important. She’d made up some pretext to ring – some trivial shopping request – because, knowing Daphne very well, she had suspected the imminence of a migraine. There were certain signs, if you only knew how to recognise them – a tightness around the eyes, a particular facial expression – and she had wanted to know how Daphne was. And she’d been right, of course. By that time Daphne was feeling distinctly unwell and she, Beatrix, had done her best to persuade her that it would be sensible to come home immediately, while it was still safe to drive. Daphne had agreed.
The next loose end to be tied up was that there were now two witnesses to confirm that Tarrant had indeed arrived home at around twenty to six the previous afternoon, as he claimed. The same two witnesses had seen Damon leave (‘like a bat out of hell’, as one of them graphically put it) a minute or two earlier.
Which reminded him … Thanet glanced at the dashboard clock. One minute to six. He switched on Radio Kent.
All day, whenever Damon’s name had come up, Thanet’s thoughts had fleetingly returned to the uneasy conversation with Joan last night and the invisible barrier that had suddenly sprung up between them. No trace of drugs had been found in Damon’s room, but late this afternoon, in view of Damon’s continued absence and silence, Thanet had reluctantly been driven to take the step he had been hoping to avoid, and had authorised an appeal on both TVS and Radio Kent this evening. Here it came.
‘Police investigating the death of Mrs Nerine Tarrant, found dead in the garden of her home at Ribbleden yesterday afternoon, are anxious to trace her son, Damon Tarrant, aged eighteen. It is thought that Damon may have gone to spend the night with friends and may as yet be unaware of his mother’s death. He is driving a red Vauxhall saloon, registration number BJZ 189J, and anyone with information as to his whereabouts is asked to contact Sturrenden Police on Sturrenden 265. I repeat, Sturrenden …’
Thanet switched the radio off. It had come over very well, he thought. There was a clear implication that Damon was not a suspect. Surely Joan couldn’t raise any objections?
Anyway, he refused to worry about her reaction at the moment. Instead, he savoured the thought of the interview ahead, just as a woman, tired after an exhausting day, savours the prospect of a leisurely hot bath. It was, quite simply, his reward for duty done, a self-indulgence justified only by the merest thread of necessity.
Lineham had thought it a waste of time.
‘What’s the point of going to see her? It’s years since she set eyes on any of them.’
But Thane
t couldn’t resist the idea. Who could give him a better insight into the dead woman than the housekeeper who had virtually brought her up?
And here he was. He pulled into the parking area and switched off the engine.
Thanet was aware that sheltered housing for the elderly, both private and council-funded, is the biggest ‘growth area’ in new building these days. By the end of the century the population of Great Britain will be heavily weighted in favour of the over-sixties, and Thanet sometimes wondered if the younger generation would be able to carry the crippling burden ahead. The Government was doing its best. Traditional nursing homes were out, community care and other schemes which enable pensioners to maintain their independence to the last were in.
Rainbow Court was typical of the latter.
Only a few minutes’ walk from the centre of Sturrenden with all its amenities, old people could continue to shop, enjoy their chosen entertainment and generally live a full and independent life (health allowing) long after they could no longer afford expensive public transport or bear the expense of running a car. Four blocks of clearly numbered low-rise flats, one no doubt occupied by a warden, were grouped around a paved courtyard attractively furnished with wooden benches, tubs of bedding plants and a central, raised rose-bed full of pink floribundas in bloom.
Ignoring the lift, Thanet climbed the stairs to Flat 15 on the third floor.
The door was wide open.
‘Is that you, Ellie?’ called a cheerful voice as he approached. ‘I’ve just finished it. Come and see. Oh,’ a different inflection as the woman realised her mistake. ‘Sorry, I was expecting someone else.’
Thanet had recognised her at once. The transition from middle-age to old-age does not bring about nearly such a radical transformation as youth to middle-age. She must, Thanet had worked out, be in her eighties by now but the years had treated her well. She was neither shrunken nor obese, and although the wrinkles on her face had multiplied and the brown hair gone grey, her carriage was still upright, her eyes alert and intelligent. She was wearing a long-sleeved floral cotton shirt-dress and a white apron. A vivid memory of the pathetic, confused figure of Lavinia Tarrant flashed through Thanet’s mind and he understood why Beatrix Haywood found the thought of this woman so reassuring.
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