by Roger Keevil
“Is that ‘Mrs’ Laye, madam?” queried Copper.
“Miss.”
“Thank you.”
“So, Miss Laye,” resumed Constable, “I gather you arrived here quite late yesterday.”
“Not especially,” countered Amanda. “Although I was probably the last one to get here, because my flight only arrived in the afternoon.”
“I only ask because somebody heard the Prime Minister mention that she wanted to have a talk with you about foreign affairs, but there wasn’t time then.”
“That would probably be because all the private meetings were scheduled for later,” said Amanda smoothly. She subsided elegantly on to an armchair alongside Constable. “These things never go well when they’re rushed.”
“But, of course, you might have had a chance to cover things briefly during your journey down to the village for dinner.”
“Oh no, inspector. The P.M. and I were in separate cars. I went down in Inspector Deare’s car with Erica, Lew, Dee and Perry.”
“Although, of course, this whole gathering wouldn’t primarily have been about this latest trip of yours,” surmised Constable. “Otherwise your colleagues wouldn’t all have been called together. So what, do you suppose, might have been the reason?”
Amanda shrugged. “I really couldn’t say, inspector. The P.M. was very reticent about the motivation behind the whole thing. I think we probably all thought we were being sized up for new jobs in an impending reshuffle.”
“Be that as it may, you were I think the first to have a meeting with the Prime Minister when the party returned here from the village after dinner.” A look towards Copper. “Sergeant, correct me if I’m wrong?”
A riffle back through the pages of Copper’s notebook. “That’s what we were told, sir.”
“Any special reason, do you suppose, Miss Laye? Other than, obviously, the seniority of your position?”
“Not particularly, inspector. You appreciate, of course, that I couldn’t divulge any details of confidential discussions.”
Constable sighed inwardly. “No, of course, Miss Laye. I’m coming to realise that. So I’ll have to assume that it was simply the first opportunity to review the future and to catch up on the details of your recent travels. I think someone heard Mrs. Ronson mention an interest in affairs in the Gulf.”
There was a tiny hesitation before Amanda replied. “But I hadn’t been to the Gulf, inspector. This trip was to the Far East – Singapore and Malaysia.”
“How odd. I dare say the remark was misheard.”
Another pause, and then the frown on Amanda’s face cleared. “Of course – I remember there was talk of the gulf between expectations and reality, inspector.” She gave a slightly brittle half-laugh. “That’s what it must have been.”
Quietly resolving to give the matter more thought later, Constable chose to move on. “And after your meeting with Mrs. Ronson, what did you do?”
“I stayed around downstairs for a little while. I helped myself to a drink, and then I found myself next to Erica Mayall so I settled down for a chat with her. We swapped a few traveller’s tales – her job takes her away to some extent, looking into the situation of women’s rights in various countries, but we were mostly talking about our favourite shops and restaurants around the world. It was entirely frivolous – nothing to do with work at all. But we ran out of conversation after a while – it’s not as if we’re particularly close friends. And eventually the atmosphere began to feel like one of those waiting rooms where people are lined up for interviews, and then they disappear one by one as the tension mounts, so I decided to come back up here and put my feet up with a book.”
“Which would have been at what time?”
Amanda pondered. “Some time after ten, I suppose, but I couldn’t be any more accurate than that.”
“Did you leave your room after that? Or were you aware of anyone else doing so?”
“You mean, was there any of the classic country house situation we’ve all seen in the Sunday night dramas, with people furtively creeping along darkened corridors and sneaking into bedrooms they shouldn’t be in?” Amanda laughed. “Sorry to disappoint you, inspector.”
“Not exactly what I had in mind, Miss Laye,” replied Constable severely. “I have rather more serious matters on my mind. Such as investigating the brutal murder of this country’s Prime Minister.”
Amanda’s face grew instantly solemn. “Of course, inspector. I’m sorry. And be assured, if there was anything I could tell you that would help your investigation, I would do so. But there’s nothing.”
*
The door of the next bedroom along the corridor, unlike the ceramics of its predecessors, bore a brass plate in the shape of an elephant bearing the legend ‘The Indian Bedroom’ in pseudo-Hindi script. In response to the invitation to enter, the detectives were greeted by a surprising invocation of the Raj at the height of its glory. Wooden shutters in intricate fretted designs flanked the windows. Reliefs of snarling marble tigers supported the mantelshelf. Aristocratic bronze egrets formed the bases of lamps with red silk tasselled shades. Peacock feathers adorned the canopy of an impressive four-poster bed with swagged hangings of purple and gold. And, almost dwarfed by the large throne-like chair in which he sat, a man in his forties, who looked up enquiringly from the sheaf of papers in his hand.
“Sorry to disturb you, sir.” Andy Constable introduced himself.
“Of course, of course.” The man sprang to his feet and virtually bounded across the room, hand outstretched in greeting. He was short, almost verging on plump, with a shining face and dark hair, and he exuded an air of great energy. “Inspector … sergeant.” He pumped his visitors’ hands vigorously. “What can I do to help you? Oh … do sit down … that’s if you can find somewhere.” He bustled to move piles of paperwork from the pair of chairs which flanked a marble-topped table inlaid with a floral design in multi-coloured stones, juggled with the breakfast tray it bore, flung the papers untidily on the bed, dislodging his red leather briefcase which crashed to the floor, waved a hand dismissively in its direction, and then resumed his seat with an expectant look.
Constable, slightly taken aback at the whirl of activity, drew breath. “I’m sure you appreciate that we need to gather as much information as we possibly can regarding the events leading up to this morning, sir.” He paused, a slight frown creasing his brow. “Forgive me, sir, but I can’t help feeling that our paths have crossed before. Have we met?”
The man laughed. “I get that a lot, inspector. As a politician, I’m not sure whether to be flattered at the recognition or depressed that people don’t know who I am.”
“But for the benefit of my sergeant’s notes, sir …,” said Constable carefully.
“Lewis Stalker, sergeant. Secretary of State for Culture, Media and Sport,” explained the man. “Which is why I’m forever popping up in television studios around the country, whenever somebody wants a comment on what the BBC is getting up to, or whatever the latest sporting scandal may be. I suppose the producers see me as some sort of man for all subjects. The only trouble as far as I’m concerned is that people are concentrating so much on the football story or the shock production at the National Theatre that they don’t actually notice me as a person. Salutary, really. We politicians always tend to get above ourselves and take ourselves too seriously.” A frank grin.
“That will be where I’ve seen you then, sir”
“Mind you,” continued Lewis, “I dare say when this news breaks, my feet won’t touch the floor. Every media outlet in the country will be on the phone to me like a shot. Not that it would do them much good at the moment, of course. Phone confiscated yesterday by the formidable Inspector Deare. Evidently somebody doesn’t trust me.”
“Not just you, sir,” said Constable. “I believe the inspector has taken charge of everybody’s phone, on instructions from Mrs. Ronson. I think it was thought vital that information about this meeting should not leak out prematurely
. And under the present circumstances, even more so.”
“Understandable, I suppose,” nodded Lewis. “Dodgy things, leaks.”
“So if we may come back to the matter in hand, sir,” prompted Constable.
Lewis shook his head. “It’s inexplicable, Mr. Constable. To think that I was sitting next to Doris at dinner last night, having a perfectly normal conversation, and now she’s dead. I suppose there’s no idea who’s done this?”
“Rather too early to say, sir. We’re still gathering information. So, regarding yesterday, may I assume that you arrived here at more or less the same time as the rest of your colleagues?”
“I did.”
“And I’m told there was some sort of gathering before the party left the Hall to go to dinner.”
“That’s right. Slightly surprising that the cars were all sent away, so we had to cram into just the two to get down to the village.”
“Did you have any conversations with Mrs. Ronson at that point?”
“No, I was in the other car, squashed in the back with three of the ladies. But as I said, I did sit next to her at dinner.”
“And I don’t suppose you can recall anything helpful that was said during the course of the meal,” surmised Constable gloomily.
Lewis laughed. “Not really. It was intended to be a jolly social occasion with all shop-talk forbidden.” He snorted. “Fat chance! That might have been the theory, but you could tell there were undercurrents. I mean, for instance, we got into the room and were shuffling about to choose our seats, and Dee Nye grabbed a chair at one end of the table like the queen bee she likes to think she is, and Marion Hayste couldn’t get to the seat at the other end quick enough. Bit of status rivalry going on there, I thought. But it was mostly superficial. Mandy Laye and Erica Mayall were across the table from me, and the P.M. seemed more interested in talking to both of them about overseas trips. I wasn’t paying that much attention, but I remember she mentioned one of Erica’s jaunts to America to some conference on women’s rights, and the conversation shot off on a tangent about designer shoes.” He grew solemn. “Not really the sort of topic you expect to lead to someone getting killed.”
“And you, sir? I’m guessing you didn’t join in with the talk of ladies’ footwear?”
“Not quite my scene, inspector. No, I got into the subject of handling the press with Perry Neal. He seemed quite intrigued as to how I manage to pull the strings to get the stories out that we want to tell, and how to sit on the people we don’t much like. I used to be in P.R. in a previous incarnation, you see, and I think he regards it all as something of a dark art. I just told him it’s mostly a case of knowing where all the bodies are buried.” He stopped short. “And there I go again. That wasn’t particularly tasteful, was it, inspector? I was always told that my big mouth would get me into trouble one day.”
“But not with Mrs. Ronson, sir?”
“What?”
“Your meeting with her on your return to the Hall, sir,” said Constable smoothly. “There were no tensions there?”
“Oh.” A slightly disconcerted pause. “No, none at all. We mostly talked about the B.B.C., as I recall. And afterwards, I came straight up here because there was a football match on television, and I need to keep up to speed with who’s winning what, or else I look a complete duffer when I’m interviewed on the Europa League or whatever.” A candid smile.
“And you didn’t leave your room after that?”
“No. The match went into extra time, and then penalties, so by the time the talking heads had finished pontificating, I was ready for the sack. I went out like a light.”
“And heard nothing?”
“Not until this morning. Then Inspector Deare came knocking with the sad news, and I’ve been cooped up here ever since.”
*
The door of the next room opened almost as soon as the sound of Andy Constable’s knock had died away.
“Yes?” The woman who stood in the doorway of the Red Room was surprisingly young, scarcely past thirty in Constable’s estimation, with brown hair curling just beyond her shoulders and large deep-blue eyes which would have been her most arresting feature, were it not for the dark circles under them which marred their attractiveness. “Oh. It’s not ….” She seemed agitated.
“Our apologies, madam,” said the inspector smoothly. “I hope I didn’t startle you. Were you expecting someone?”
“No. Not at all. Well, perhaps Inspector Deare. I thought she might be coming to tell us …” She tailed off.
“I’m sorry, madam, but I’m afraid you’ll have to put up with me and my colleague.” Constable and Copper showed their warrant cards with a few brief words of explanation. “I wonder if we might come in for a moment.”
“Oh. Yes. You’d better sit down. I’m afraid there’s only one chair.”
“That’s perfectly all right, madam,” smiled Constable, with a sideways look at his junior. “Sergeant Copper is quite used to standing.” He took a seat and glanced around the room, while its occupant paced restlessly. It was considerably smaller than the other bedrooms the detectives had visited – perhaps a lady’s maid’s room or a former dressing room, he surmised – and the lack of space was accentuated by the colour scheme, with walls covered in a dark red flocked paper, a tiny black cast-iron fireplace, and windows flanked by heavy maroon velvet curtains. “It makes it easier for him to concentrate on his note-taking. Perhaps he’d better start with your name.”
“It’s Marion – Marion Hayste.”
“Ah yes. Mrs?” A nod. “Your name’s been mentioned to us already.”
“It has? I mean, how …?”
“Your fellow-minister Mrs. Nye spoke of you when we talked to her a little while ago. I gather you came down to Dammett Hall together in her car.”
“Yes. Yes, we did.”
“Because I understand that you work together – am I right?”
“I work for her,” said Marion. “I’m a minister in her department – Minister for Prisons, actually.”
Constable couldn’t stop his eyebrows rising in surprise. “That’s a very heavy responsibility for anyone, madam. Let alone, if you don’t mind me saying so, someone relatively young. I mean, there are some serious hardened criminals out there. And I should know.”
Marion attempted a small smile. “You aren’t the only one who’s surprised at my appointment, inspector. I was fairly amazed myself, particularly since I was one of the new intake of M.P.s at the last election. But Mrs. Ronson said that she was determined to have fresh blood, and …” Marion broke off at the import of her words, and her hand went to her mouth. “Oh dear.”
“Would you like to sit down?” asked Constable in concerned tones, rising from his chair.
“No, no. I’m fine.” Marion took a deep breath. “It’s just all very upsetting. Killing someone like that – it’s just so horrible.”
“Which is why we need to get to the bottom of it as soon as we can, Mrs. Hayste. And so, if you’re sure you are up to it, I do need to ask you some questions.”
“Please, inspector, carry on.” Marion seemed calmer.
“Were you aware of any tensions between any of your colleagues and Mrs. Ronson, either before or during yesterday’s gathering?”
Marion shook her head. “Not that I can think of, inspector. I’ve only been in post a short while, and I’m afraid I’m still very junior, so I’m not quite au fait with everything that goes on.”
“How about any conflicts between your fellow-ministers which might have spilt over?” hazarded Constable. “For instance, I gather you and Mrs. Nye had quite an animated conversation before everyone went off to the village for dinner.”
“Did we?” Marion looked uncertain, but then her face cleared. “Oh, that. That was nothing, inspector. We were just talking about some initiative that I’m supposed to be implementing. Very dull government stuff.”
“And did the conversation stay dull over dinner?”
“I’m a
fraid it did. Not that I took much of a part in it. I was sat between Lewis Stalker and Perry Neal, and Lew is never one to use one word where ten will do, so it was mostly a question of sitting back and letting the talk flow over me.”
“And after dinner, everyone came back here for their series of meetings with the Prime Minister.”
“That’s right. And I had to wait around until everyone else had been in – the penalty for being the most junior member of the team, I suppose – so there was nothing to do but sit around and listen to other people making conversation. Thank goodness the bar had been left open, or we’d have all died of boredom.” Marion closed her eyes at the import of her words.
Constable’s attention was alerted. “So are you saying that you were the last person to see Mrs. Ronson last night, and everyone else had disappeared by the time you left?”
“Oh no, inspector. Perry was still in the drawing room when I came out from my meeting with the P.M. And I stayed and had a brief word with him, and Mrs. Ronson poked her head into the room while we were talking. I think she was quite surprised that we were still there. But then she said, rather pointedly I thought, that she wouldn’t need either of us any more and that we were quite at liberty to go to bed.”
“That sounds like a fairly firm dismissal.”
“That’s what we thought,” said Marion. “We looked at one another, and Perry raised one eyebrow, the way he does, and then we made our way up here together.” Constable gave a slightly quizzical look. “No, I don’t mean together, not like that,” explained the minister hurriedly. “I just mean … he’s in the next room, you see. His Lordship’s Room.” She gestured. “Much grander than the room they allocate to a mere Minister of State. As are most of the others.”
“You … er … you’ve seen Dr. Neal’s room?” enquired Constable carefully.
“No!” was Marion’s swift reaction. “No. He just told me about it, that’s all. So we said goodnight in the corridor and … well, that was it, really.”