by Roger Keevil
Sheila sighed. “I suppose so, Andy. So, did you make any progress in the village?”
“Perhaps rather more than I expected,” responded Constable. “I have a couple of things I’d like to clear up. And the first of those is what happened when the Prime Minister’s car first arrived in Dammett Worthy. She went into the church. Was this planned?”
“No, not at all. It’s just that we were driving by, and she noticed one of the ministerial cars parked outside, and she said that she wondered who that was.”
“She didn’t recognise whose car it was?”
“No. They’re all pretty much identical, but I know all the registration numbers, so I told her it was Perry Neal. And straight away she told the driver to stop, and then she got out and went into the church.”
“You didn’t accompany her?”
“No,” said Sheila. “She said she had a little private communing to do. Slightly out of character, I thought – she’d never struck me as particularly religious - but as there wasn’t another soul in sight, I judged that there wasn’t any threat to her safety. So I stayed in the car. And then a little while after that, Dr. Neal came out and got into his car, and a short while after that, Mrs. Ronson herself emerged, and we continued on to the Hall.”
“She didn’t say anything about her visit to the church?”
“Not a word. Well, not to me. She settled back in her seat looking out of the window, and I thought I heard her murmur something about ‘Hippocratic’, or some such – I assumed she must have meant the Hippocratic oath, which I thought must have been some reference to Dr. Neal, but she didn’t seem disposed to chat, so that was it until we arrived here a few minutes later.”
“How about when everybody adjourned to the Dammett Well Inn in the evening for dinner? Was there anything said then that might have some bearing on what was happening between the ministers?” enquired Constable.
“I really couldn’t tell you, I’m afraid, Andy,” replied Sheila. “I wasn’t in the dining room during the meal. I stayed outside in the bar and had something to eat there. It gave me the chance to make sure that nobody unauthorised strayed into the dining room. Only Mr. Porter and the two waiting staff were allowed in there.”
“Just as a matter of interest, Sheila, did you carry out any checks into the Dammett Well staff before you arranged the dinner?”
“Only cursory ones into the landlord and his waitress.” Sheila gave the ghost of a smile. “I couldn’t imagine that the Dammett Worthy village pub would be the secret haunt of rabid revolutionaries, so it didn’t seem necessary to do anything more rigorous.”
“Hmmm.” Andy Constable’s lack of comment was eloquent.
“I know what you’re thinking, Andy,” said Sheila ruefully. “And you’re quite right. I’m just worried about the ramifications of the whole business. And for me personally, too. Obviously the Prime Minister’s security was not what it should have been.”
Constable smiled wryly. “You speak truer than you know, Sheila. And not for the obvious reason.”
Sheila frowned. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Tell me, how far did your remit extend as far as Mrs. Ronson’s security was involved?”
“Just her personally. Why?”
“So not extending to the staff around her? I mean in Whitehall.”
“No. There’s a unit that deals with that sort of thing.” Sheila continued to look puzzled. “I don’t see what you’re getting at.”
“The fact is, Sheila,” said Constable, “you have a cuckoo in the nest.” And as Sheila’s bafflement grew, “Can you just jot something down for me? Anything will do. ‘The quick brown fox’ or something.”
Sheila, plainly still not understanding, reached for a sheet of paper on the desk and scribbled a few words. “Will that do?”
Constable glanced at the handwriting. “As I thought. Someone had sent a note to try to warn the P.M. about the interloper, but that someone was evidently not you. Not, I suppose, that it matters particularly, because if someone was trying to protect Mrs. Ronson, they probably wouldn’t be likely to want to kill her. However, someone at Number 10 is going to catch a very severe cold for employing an undercover journalist so close to the Prime Minister. Whether that affects this case, I’m about to go and find out.”
Sheila had a look of complete astonishment written all over her face. “But who is it you’re talking about? Not one of the ministers, surely?”
“No. It is in fact your waiter, Jim Daly.”
“What?”
Constable nodded. “His actual name is Seamus Daly. He works for one of the tabloids. And, if he’s still ensconced in the morning room, I’m off to have a little word with him.” He stood. “Come along, Copper. Notebook at the ready. I think Mr. Daly is going to have to do a little extra reporting.” He made for the door of the morning room, leaving Sheila Deare looking profoundly concerned.
*
“You’ve not been entirely honest with me, Mr. Daly, have you?” challenged Andy Constable, as he strode into the room, to find Jim Daly still with his feet up on the sofa.
“Ah.” Jim swung his feet round to sit upright. “I wondered how long it would be before we had this little chat.”
“Possibly not as long as you would have liked, Mr. Daly. So let’s talk about your real job and what you’re doing here.” Constable seated himself and gave Jim a hard stare.
“Ah well, nothing is forever.” Jim shrugged philosophically. “Except maybe diamonds. But certainly not the late Diamond Doris.” He winced. “Apologies, inspector. That was a remark in very poor taste. Actually, for all that I had to do with her, I quite liked the woman. And it was a good gig while it lasted. But in answer to your question, inspector, I have been honest with you, in that I haven’t told you a word of a lie. But I’ll grant you, I may not have been entirely candid.”
“So let’s elicit a few facts, without embroidery, if you please, Mr. Daly,” said Constable, indicating to Dave Copper to take notes. “And just for the avoidance of doubt, since you’re a journalist, you should be aware that this conversation is very much on the record.”
“Am I under caution?”
“No, you are not, Mr. Daly,” retorted Constable, beginning to allow a touch of exasperation to show. “I have no reason to suppose that you are guilty of anything other than what some might see as a breathtaking level of deceit. So please, can I have some straight answers?”
Jim thought for a moment, and then gave an open and guileless smile. “Sorry, inspector. Force of habit, dancing around the truth. But as my cover is now completely blown, ask away.”
“Right then, …” began the inspector.
“Oh, just one thing,” interrupted Jim. “Is there any chance that, when this is all sorted out, I can have an exclusive interview?”
“Don’t push your luck,” growled Constable. “And you can consider yourself fortunate if I don’t put you on a charge for wasting police time.” He drew a deep breath. “So, we’ll start again. You’re a reporter. You have a regular column in the ‘Daily Globe’. So how and why did you come to be working at Number 10?”
“Oh, there’s no mystery at all about that, inspector. As for the why, surely it’s obvious. With everything that’s been going on in politics lately, and all these people working together who’d been at daggers drawn previously, there had to be a very tasty inside story as to what was happening at the heart of the government. And what sort of journalist would I be if I didn’t want to go after it?”
“Do you really want an answer to that question, Mr. Daly?”
Jim grinned. “Probably best not. But as for the how, I told you. I knew somebody who knew somebody, and it was the easiest thing in the world to wangle my way on to the government payroll as one of the menials. Don’t you remember that story a few years ago about the guy who got a job at Buckingham Palace? One of my rivals from another rag. He wanted to see if there was anything going on behind the scenes in the royal household that he cou
ld spill the beans about, no doubt to the great delight of his slavering readers, so he managed to get himself taken on as a footman. Pretty low grade, but it still got him access to all sorts of little bits and pieces, including what the royals like for breakfast and who does what with the toothpaste. Not exactly earth-shattering stuff, but the public lapped it up. So I had the idea, if it worked for him, why not for me? In my book, no idea is too good to pinch. And there’s a lot more power swilling around in the corridors of Whitehall, so I figured there was a lot more scope for skulduggery.” Jim smiled contentedly. “Too right, there was. If I can’t get a book deal out of this, I deserve to be back on the bottom rung of the ladder covering dog shows. But as it is, I think my editor is going to welcome me back with open arms.”
“Your welcome at your newspaper doesn’t interest me in the slightest, Mr. Daly,” said Constable sharply. “What I wish to know is, what information can you give me about the people in this case?”
“But I’ve told you all I know about what happened over the dinner last night,” protested Jim. “And I’ve not been around the house at all, until this morning.”
“I’m not talking about the last twenty-four hours. I mean previously. If you’re anything like worth your salt as a reporter, surely there will be things you have discovered that could point to who might have wanted Mrs. Ronson dead. In my experience, there are very few reasons for people to kill, other than the random violence of the moment. One main motive is gain. People commit murder either for simply financial reasons, or else to advance themselves by removing an obstacle. The other motive is protection. They kill either to protect someone else from a threat, or to counteract a danger to themselves. Physical or reputational.”
“Ah,” said Jim. “And in the murky world of politics, the reputation must be protected at all costs. Is that what you’re saying, inspector?”
“It is.”
“And that’s where I come in? You reckon I’ve got the dirty on all our candidates for the handcuffs?”
“I’m hoping so, Mr. Daly. So, have you?”
Jim thought for a few seconds and then sighed. “You know, inspector, if you weren’t a policeman, you’d make a pretty good reporter.” Constable gazed at him stonily. “That’s a compliment, by the way. Because you don’t look as if you’ll let go of something once you’ve got your teeth into it.” A deep breath. “Okay, if I tell you what I know, I’m going to have to trust you not to spill the beans to all and sundry about everyone and spoil my story. After all, even a humble hack’s got to make a living.”
“No promises, Mr. Daly. But if you have information about someone that’s not relevant to this specific case, I can’t see why I should be stealing your thunder by revealing it to anyone else.”
“If that’s as good as it gets, I’ll take it. Mind you, some of the things I have so far are just whispers, and I haven’t got too much detail. But ask me your questions. Who do you need to know about?”
Constable turned to his junior colleague. “Copper, you’ve got a note of the ministers in the order we spoke to them. We might as well go down the list. Who was first?”
“That was Mrs. Nye, sir.”
“Well, Mr. Daly?”
“The lady in charge of the justice system, eh? Well, as far as I know, she’s as pure as the driven snow. You’d expect someone to have some skeletons lurking in a closet somewhere, but I haven’t found any relating to her. Mind you, I wouldn’t be quite so sure about that husband of hers. Not that I’ve had a chance to go ferreting about at all, but I’ve seen him at one of those Downing Street do’s, and he struck me as a pretty slippery character. And there are murmurs. He’s in finance somewhere in the City, I believe, and you know what everyone says about bankers.”
Jim’s remark struck a chord with something in the back of Constable’s mind. “Thank you for that. Who’s next, Copper?”
“Mr. Grade, sir. Who happened to be sat next to Mrs. Nye at dinner.”
“Yes, I remember we’ve already been told a couple of things about him. So perhaps we can move on to the next one. Which is …?”
“That’s Amanda Laye, guv.”
“Who has just come back from her overseas trip. The Far East, if I remember correctly. Although I seem to recall being told about a couple of mentions of the Middle East. Something to do with a knowledge of Arab cuisine.”
“Well, that wouldn’t surprise me the tiniest bit,” scoffed Jim. “Not with that lady.”
“And why would that be, Mr. Daly?” enquired Constable, scenting revelations.
“Sure, and it didn’t take a lot of digging to find out that when she was a student at Camford University, she was extremely friendly with a certain Arab prince who was the eldest son of the Emir of Kujaira. Nothing wrong in that, of course, and that’s no doubt where she acquired an intimate knowledge of Middle Eastern cuisine, and a few other things besides, if my sources are to be trusted. You might say that there was no gulf between the two students, as it were.”
“But isn’t that just gossip? Why would a student romance from years ago be of any interest now?”
“No interest at all normally, inspector. Except that the lady is now Foreign Secretary, and the boy who was the prince is now the reigning Emir. And that is a very sensitive part of the world. You join the dots.”
“Nothing’s simple, is it?” Constable asked himself half-aloud. “So, moving on, sergeant, what’s the next name?”
“Mrs. Hayste, sir.”
“Our Marion? Something of a dark horse,” remarked Jim. “Very much in the shadow of her boss, it seems to me. I know there’s something going on about a new initiative on prisons – drugs, I think - but I haven’t managed to crowbar anything useful out of anyone yet.”
“Mr. Knightly did mention something about words passing between her and Mrs. Nye before the party left for the pub, sir,” offered Copper. “Possibly slightly heated. If that’s any help.”
“That might account for the fact that she seemed somewhat subdued over dinner, inspector,” suggested Jim. “Even when I was about to top up her glass of water, DiDo looked across and said something like ‘Not more watering down, surely?’, but Marion didn’t answer. I don’t know that I heard much out of her at all. So, sorry, I’ve no extra dirt to dish.”
“Then we come to whoever is next.” Constable turned to his junior. “Sergeant, this list seems to go on forever.”
“Only a couple more, guv,” Copper reassured him. “This one’s Dr. Neal.”
“Charming chap,” commented Jim. “Probably because he’s got no background in politics. I can’t think of anything extra I know about him, inspector. Maybe I should have gone rooting into his history in his old local papers.”
“Don’t worry about that, Mr. Daly,” replied Constable. “I think we’ve been told quite enough to think about for the time being. So that brings us to …?”
“Erica Mayall, sir.”
“Ah, the one with expensive tastes. I reckon you’ve had plenty from me on the subject of that lady,” said Jim. “I told you what was said over dinner. I’m sure, with a little gentle research of your own, you can work out how things stood between her and Mrs. Ronson.”
“Oh. Very well,” said Constable, slightly disconcerted by the response. “Which I’m sincerely hoping brings us to the last of our ministers.”
“It does, sir,” confirmed Copper. “Mr. Fitt.”
“Our East End boy,” said Jim.
“Although I think he told us he was quite pleased to move on from there when we spoke to him,” observed Constable.
“Ah, well, maybe he hasn’t moved on quite far enough for his liking, inspector, if some of the whispers I hear turn out to be true. One of my sources promised me the mother of all revelations. That was on my to-do list we got back to Westminster.”
“Weren’t we told of a couple of remarks Mrs. Ronson made to Mr. Fitt, sir?” Copper reminded his superior. “There was something Gideon Porter heard, and also one of the others. I’
m sure I’ve got it in my notes somewhere.” He started to leaf back through his notebook.
Constable took a decision. “Save it for now, sergeant. We’ll be going back over everything in due course anyway, but at the moment, I’m starting to suffer from information overload. I think a medicinal cup of tea and a biscuit is the least we can expect Mr. Knightly to provide for us out of the hotel’s facilities.” He rose. “Let’s see if we can roust him out.”
“Does that mean you’re finished with me, inspector?” asked Jim. “Any chance I can be on my way?”
“Not a hope,” retorted Constable. “My brain is not so fuddled that I’m prepared to let a journalist in possession of some sensational news loose on the world. I’m afraid you’re going to have to cool your heels here a little longer. But I can arrange for a refill of your coffee pot, if that will help.”
“You’re too kind.” Jim settled back again in his customary reclining position.
“Oh, just one thing.” Constable paused in the doorway. “Would you happen to know of someone called Heather? The name’s cropped up out of nowhere on a piece of the hotel’s stationery among Mrs. Ronson’s belongings, and I can’t see why it should. It’s not as if we’ve got any Heathers in the mix.”
Jim laughed. “Ah, inspector, it’s plain you’re no gardener.”
“And you are?” The inspector raised a doubting eyebrow.
“What, you don’t see me getting my hands dirty down in the mud?” said Jim. “Well, maybe not in the literal sense anyway. You probably think otherwise.”
“So what on earth has gardening got to do with anything?” asked Constable, perplexed.
“My old mam could tell you in a minute,” said Jim. “Very fond of her garden, she is. Especially her heather garden. Her pride and joy, that is. As kids, we all had to go and admire it on a regular basis.”
“And so …?”
“Oh, come on, Mr. Constable,” teased Jim. “Call yourself a detective? You can’t expect me to do all the hard work for you. But I bet if you take a look in the library, you’ll probably find some sort of reference book on plants or botany. That’ll sort your Heather out soon enough.”