‘I liked her, myself. After all, if she’s in a tight corner it’s understandable that she should protect her interests.’
‘You’re not saying you couldn’t blame them for killing off the old lady!’
‘Of course not! But that’s far from proven yet.’
‘I know, I know. Now you’re going to tell me I’ve got to keep an open mind!’
Thanet laughed. ‘No need, is there, when you’re obviously aware of it yourself. Come on, it’ll do us good to forget about the case for a while. How are the children?’
But this wasn’t the happiest choice of topics, it seemed.
Lineham grimaced. ‘We’re a bit worried about Richard, as a matter of fact.’
‘Why? What’s the matter with him?’
‘I wish I knew. I mean, he’s a bright lad, wouldn’t you agree?’
‘Yes, he is.’
‘Then why is he always in trouble at school?’
‘What sort of trouble?’
‘His form teacher can’t seem to make up her mind if he’s deliberately perverse or just plain lazy. And disorganised! He can’t seem to keep track of any of his belongings for more than two minutes together. He’s always in trouble for losing things, or forgetting them … Louise says the only way she can think of for him to keep his things together would be to tie them to him!’
‘You don’t think people are expecting too much of him, because he is bright?’
‘I don’t know.’ They were travelling behind a container lorry. ‘Look at that! He’s doing over seventy!’
‘Not our problem, Mike. We can’t turn everyone in the country into law-abiding citizens single-handed.’
Lineham pulled out to overtake, glowering up at the lorry driver as they passed the cab.
‘So what are you going to do about it?’
‘The school has arranged for him to see a child psychologist, tomorrow afternoon.’
‘Bit drastic, isn’t it?’
‘It was their idea. They say if there is a problem we ought to nip it in the bud.’
‘Well, he’s always seemed a perfectly normal, healthy child to me.’
‘You don’t have to live with him! We dithered and dithered before agreeing, but in the end we decided it couldn’t do him any harm and it might do some good. We can’t go on like this indefinitely, it’s driving us mad. Did you ever have any problems like this with Ben?’
‘We’ve had problems, of course,’ said Thanet, thinking especially of that terrible time when one of Ben’s friends had died of glue-sniffing and they had discovered that Ben had also been experimenting with ‘solvent inhalation’. ‘But nothing quite like what you’re describing.’
They drove for a while in silence and then Thanet said, ‘You’re right. It’ll be a good idea for him to see this chap tomorrow.’
‘Woman.’
‘All right, woman. If nothing else it’ll clear the air, relieve your minds, to feel you’re doing something about it.’
‘I hope you’re right.’
It was late when Thanet got home. Alexander’s Porsche had gone, he was relieved to see. Much as he loved Bridget he really didn’t feel like socialising tonight. He was tired and his back, which had always been a problem ever since he had injured it some years ago, was aching. He longed to stretch out flat and relax.
He wasn’t surprised to find that Joan had already gone to bed. He was thirsty and he took an ice-cold can of lager from the fridge and drank half of it straight off before sitting down at the kitchen table to eat the cold meat and salad she had left for him. Afterwards he went upstairs as quietly as he could, hoping not to disturb her.
As he eased himself into bed she stirred, half woke and then settled into sleep again. He stretched out flat on his back, luxuriating in the relief as tired muscles relaxed into the expensive orthopaedic mattress in which they had decided to invest when it became apparent that this back problem wasn’t going to go away.
The windows were open to the summer night and the curtains stirred softly in the breeze. Thanet began to breathe deeply and evenly in the hope that he would quickly drop off to sleep. But he knew that, tired as he was, this was unlikely. Always, at the beginning of a case, there was so much to absorb, so much to assess, that his overactive brain took a long time to unwind.
Thanet believed that, random victims of violence apart, murder victims carried in themselves or in their lives the seeds of their own tragic destiny. Something in their circumstances, past or present, or something in their character had finally led to that moment of ultimate violence, and it was his job to find out what it was.
Isobel Fairleigh’s character had, according to her sister, been largely shaped by her father’s thwarted desire for a son. What had Letty said? She was a bold, headstrong child, and he encouraged her to be strong, determined, even ruthless, if necessary.
Well, she had certainly been well taught, by all accounts. According to Joan’s mother – surely as impartial a witness as one could hope to find – Isobel had been bossy, managing, manipulative. Caroline had called her selfish, egocentric, demanding, proud. Her sister Letty was the only person who seemed to make excuses for the old woman’s unattractive personality, and Thanet wasn’t sure if Letty wasn’t just that little bit too good to be true. Surely no one treated as she had been could have been as apparently free of resentment as she was? What had Caroline Plowright said? How Letty put up with her I just don’t know. The way Isobel used to boss her around … She used to behave as if Letty’s one aim in life should be to make her own as comfortable as possible. And she never, ever let her forget she was dependent on her for the roof over her head. An image of Letty’s sparsely furnished bedroom with its cast-off furniture and spotted mirror flashed through Thanet’s mind.
It had already occurred to Thanet that Isobel had probably left Letty something in her will, and that Letty might be aware of this. How much of a temptation would it be, to know that independence was within her grasp for the first time in her life? That, and freedom from a tyranny acknowledged by everyone but herself.
And she had definitely been lying about not having gone upstairs when she went into the house around the time of the murder. On that final visit to the old lady Grace had seen Letty, Thanet was sure of it.
Thanet couldn’t imagine Letty planning and plotting her sister’s death, but with Isobel helpless, who knows how strong the temptation might have become? She could have tried to justify giving in to it by convincing herself that she would be doing Isobel a favour, releasing her from the dependence and indignities she must have hated. It was even possible that she had told Thanet about Pamela in the hope that suspicion would be diverted away from herself. Perhaps he had underestimated her, and her apparent reluctance to confess that she had seen Pamela at the fête yesterday had been carefully calculated to make him eager to know what it was she was apparently withholding.
Still, it had certainly been a valuable piece of information, explaining much that had come before and opening up an important avenue of inquiry. In Thanet’s view Hugo was a much more likely suspect.
Fragments of conversation floated through Thanet’s mind. Caroline: My guess is that he met someone about a year ago, and the affair is still going on. Letty: Pamela called it off. Hugo was heartbroken. Hugo: If you must know, last summer I met her for the first time in many years … Pamela: I really don’t see that it’s any of your business.
Thanet sighed. Ah, but it is, Pamela, he thought as he grew drowsy. It is very much our business.
For if they were having an affair – which seemed more than likely – and if Hugo had told his mother, and if she had objected, and if she had threatened to cut him out of her will … If, if, if! Stop it, he told himself sleepily. What is the point in speculating?
But he had to know, and soon.
First thing in the morning, he promised himself. Oliver Bassett, Isobel Fairleigh’s solicitor …
TWELVE
As soon as Thanet walked into the offi
ce next morning he could tell that Lineham was on to something. The sergeant was seated at his desk surrounded by neat piles of paper and his face as he looked up was triumphant.
‘Just listen to this!’
There was an answering twist of excitement in Thanet’s stomach. ‘What?’
Lineham picked up one of the bundles of paper. Bank statements, by the look of it. ‘On the first day of every month a large cheque was paid out of old Mrs Fairleigh’s account.’
‘How large?’
‘A thousand quid a month, for the last six months. Before that, for the previous six months, it was nine hundred. For the six months before that eight hundred …’
‘I get the picture.’
‘Don’t you see, sir?’ Lineham was brimming over with excitement. ‘B day. Bank day. The first day of the month …’
‘No need to spell it out, Mike. I’m not an idiot.’ And then, as Lineham looked crestfallen, ‘Well done, Mike. Brilliant, in fact. It was a cheque, you say, not a standing order or direct debit?’
‘That’s right.’
‘When it opens, get on to the bank, make an appointment to go and see them.’
‘What d’you think the money was for?’ Lineham was reluctant to let the matter go.
‘Waste of time to speculate at the moment. Let’s wait and see what you find out.’
‘Then there’s this.’ Lineham handed Thanet a sheet of paper in a plastic envelope. ‘Anonymous, but sounds as though it’d be worth following up.’
The letter was written in block capitals on cheap, lined notepaper.
ASK ABOUT THE ROW WHEN MRS FAIRLEIGH HAD HER STROKE.
‘Envelope?’ said Thanet.
Lineham handed over another plastic envelope. ‘More block capitals. Addressed to you. Postmarked Sturrenden. Who do you think wrote it, sir?’
‘Assuming the old lady was at home when she had the stroke, take your pick, Mike. Hugo Fairleigh, Grace Fairleigh, Letty Ransome, Sam, Mrs Kerk …’
‘I’d plump for Mrs Kerk, wouldn’t you?’
‘I agree. Anyway, we’ll take the letter with us when we go out to the house later, see what reactions we get.’ Thanet was pleased. Two leads already this morning. ‘Anything else?’
‘Confirmation that Tanner is still inside. And reports from Bentley and Carson, on the interviews with Mrs Tanner and Jill Cochrane.’
‘What do they say?’
‘Well, Bentley says Mrs Tanner is a bit weird. And definitely very anti the old lady. Called her, what was it?’ Lineham flipped through the report. ‘Yes, here it it. An “evil old cow, who went around poking her nose into everyone else’s business”. Says she swears she never went upstairs, was busy in and out all afternoon, “run off her legs” was how she put it, carrying trays of crockery.’
‘So she was actually working in the house, not out in the tent.’
‘Apparently, yes.’
‘And no one would have noticed if she happened to take a few minutes longer on one of those occasions.’
‘So do we take it any further?’
‘Not at the moment. But we obviously can’t rule her out. If we run into a lot of dead ends elsewhere, we’ll follow it up, go and see her ourselves. What did Jill Cochrane have to say?’
‘Nothing helpful, I’m afraid. She and Fairleigh weren’t together all the time. He kept stopping to talk to people and she was duty bound to go around all the stalls, people expect it of the person who opens the fête.’
‘Quite. Pity. So she doesn’t actually remember seeing him speak to someone of Pamela Raven’s description?’
‘No.’
Thanet glanced at his watch. Time for the morning meeting. ‘Must go or I’ll be late. Ring Wylie, Bassett and Protheroe, make an appointment for this morning, if possible, with Oliver Bassett. And ring the bank.’
Morning meetings these days were subdued affairs, a far cry from when they were first instituted. Then, Superintendent Draco had been like a terrier, snapping at the heels of his staff and making sure that no detail was overlooked. Thanet, Boon and Tody had long since given up regular inquiries after Angharad Draco’s progress; it merely depressed Draco even further, and her illness had reached a stage when they were afraid of what they might hear. Today Draco looked exhausted, his face drawn, with dark, bruised circles beneath lack-lustre eyes. Even his wiry black hair looked limp and tired, like its owner.
Thanet’s report was of necessity the longest. Draco listened carefully, asked a few pertinent questions and then said, ‘You’ll handle this matter with tact, I’m sure, Thanet. If you run into any problems you know where to find me.’
Gone were the maxims and admonitions which had so irritated Thanet in the past. Now he felt that he would suffer them gladly if only Draco would return to being his former ebullient self. After a brief press conference he returned to his office still feeling depressed on the Superintendent’s behalf.
‘Mr Bassett will see us at 10.30,’ said Lineham, as Thanet walked in.
‘Good.’
‘And I’ve arranged an appointment with the bank manager at 11.15.’
‘Excellent.’
‘Didn’t Doc Mallard say he’d managed to fix the PM for first thing this morning?’
‘Yes. He should let us have a verbal report later on.’
While they waited Thanet and Lineham went through Mrs Fairleigh’s papers again, searching for something to indicate what the large regular payment could be for, but there was no clue. By the time they left for their appointment with Bassett, Lineham was becoming increasingly frustrated. ‘There must be something,’ he said as they walked along the High Street. ‘I can’t believe a woman can lay out a thousand pounds a month and there’d not be some reference to it in her papers.’
‘Patience, Mike, patience. Perhaps the bank will reveal all.’
Lineham merely grunted.
On this sunny Monday morning Sturrenden was looking its best, preening itself in the sunshine for the benefit of an artist who had set up his easel in a spot which afforded him the best, much painted view of the church. As Thanet and Lineham passed he was covering the bare canvas with a base colour, applying the paint with sweeping enthusiastic strokes. No doubt he couldn’t wait to get started on the painting proper.
‘All right for some,’ said Lineham as they separated to walk around the easel. ‘I bet he’s glad he doesn’t have to spend his time combing through a load of dusty old papers … That’s a thought, sir. Perhaps we missed some. Papers sometimes slip down at the back of drawers.’
‘You can look when we go out, later.’
They had arrived. This was not their first visit to the offices of Wylie, Bassett and Protheroe. On the previous occasion, some seven years ago, Oliver Bassett had himself been a suspect in a murder case, when a woman had been strangled on the first night of a visit to Sturrenden after an absence of twenty years. Thanet had of course seen Bassett out and about in the town during the intervening period and he thought once again, as Bassett rose to greet them, how little the man seemed to change. The solicitor was now in his mid-forties, tall and well-built, with a jutting nose rather like that of his dead client. The height of his forehead was emphasised by the fact that his hair was beginning to recede and the small, prim mouth was turned up in a welcoming smile which vanished as soon as the greetings were over.
‘A terrible business,’ he said, when they were all seated. ‘What sort of person could murder a helpless old woman in her bed?’
‘That’s what we intend to find out.’
‘I imagine you want me to tell you about her will.’
‘Mrs Fairleigh was a wealthy woman. Someone stands to gain by her death, no doubt.’
‘That does not necessarily mean that they are implicated.’
‘Not necessarily, no. But it is obviously a possibility that we have to consider.’
Bassett pursed his lips. ‘I find myself in a difficult position. This firm has always acted for the Fairleigh family and I therefo
re represent both the victim and those whom you no doubt regard as suspects. I have to ask myself where my loyalties lie, with the dead or the living.’
‘Oh come, Mr Bassett. You’re a man of the law. You couldn’t possibly condone murder, under any circumstances. And in any case the contents of the will must become public sooner or later.’
‘True.’ Bassett sighed. ‘I guessed you would be coming to see me, of course, and I suppose my duty is plain.’
But he still sounded very uncertain about it. Why? Unless … Thanet’s scalp prickled with excitement. Suddenly he was sure that there was more to Bassett’s reluctance than met the eye. The solicitor knew something, but he felt he shouldn’t divulge it.
‘Would you like some coffee?’
Delaying tactics now, thought Thanet. But he was willing to play along and he accepted.
Bassett’s secretary must have been primed. The coffee arrived almost at once and Bassett dismissed her with a word of thanks and began to fuss with coffee, sugar and cream in a spinsterish manner. Watching him, Thanet wondered whether the secret of Bassett’s homosexuality, revealed to the police during the course of the earlier case, had yet leaked out into the community. He rather thought not. If Bassett ever indulged his tastes, he was very discreet indeed. Even now, in a small country town like Sturrenden, skirts would be drawn aside and in Bassett’s profession a spotless reputation was of paramount importance.
Once the little ceremony was over the silence stretched out. Thanet was content to wait and so, for a while, it seemed, was Bassett. Finally, the solicitor put down his cup and sat back, steepling his hands beneath his chin as if to emphasise that the decision he had made had been reached only after due and judicious consideration. ‘The terms of the will are straightforward. The bulk of Mrs Fairleigh’s estate goes, as might be expected, to her son Hugo.’
‘How much does that amount to?’ Thanet already had some idea, from the broker’s statement, but Bassett didn’t know that and would be expecting him to ask.
‘Something in excess of half a million pounds. Death duties, of course, will be substantial, but fortunately I managed to convince Mrs Fairleigh that it would be a good idea to make the house over to her son some ten years ago, so the house itself will be exempt.’ Bassett looked smug, as well he might.
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