by P. D. James
As they unlatched the gate, the door opened and a young couple were gently but firmly propelled out. They were followed by an elderly man, neat as a manikin, with a bouffant of white hair and a tan which no winter sun could have produced. He was wearing a suit with a waistcoat, the exaggerated stripes of which diminished his meagre frame still further. He appeared not to notice the newcomers, but his fluting voice came clearly to them down the path.
‘You don’t ring. It’s supposed to be a restaurant not a private house. Use your imagination. And Wayne, dear boy, get it right this time. You give your name and the booking details to the reception, someone will take your coats, then you follow the person greeting you to your table. The lady goes first. Don’t bang on ahead and pull out your guest’s chair as if you’re afraid someone will grab it. Let the man do his job. He’ll see to it that she’s comfortably seated. So let’s do it again. And try, dear boy, to look confident. You’ll be paying the bill, for God’s sake. Your job is to see that your guest has a meal which makes at least a pretence at being worth what you’ll be paying for it, and a happy evening. She won’t if you don’t know what you’re doing. All right, perhaps you’d better come in and we’ll practise the knives-and-forks bit.’
The couple disappeared inside and it was then he deigned to turn his attention to Kate and Benton. They walked up to him and Kate flipped open her wallet. ‘Detective Inspector Miskin and Detective Sergeant Benton-Smith. We’re here to see Mr Jeremy Coxon.’
‘I’m sorry I kept you waiting. I’m afraid you arrived at an inopportune moment. It’ll be a long time before those two are ready for Claridge’s. Yes, Jeremy said something about expecting the police. You’d better come in. He’s upstairs in the office.’
They passed into the hall. Benton saw through the open door to the left that a small table for two had been set with four glasses in each place and a plethora of knives and forks. The couple were already seated, staring at each other disconsolately.
‘I’m Alvin Brent. If you’ll just wait, I’ll pop up and see if Jeremy’s ready. You will be very considerate with him, won’t you? He’s terribly upset. He’s lost a dear, dear friend. But, of course, you’ll know all about that, that’s why you’re here.’
He was about to walk up the stairs but at that moment a figure appeared at the top. He was tall and very thin with sleek black hair drawn back from a taut, pale face. He was expensively dressed with a careful casualness, which with his dramatic stance gave him the appearance of a male model posed for a camera shoot. His close-fitting black trousers looked immaculate. His tan jacket, unbuttoned, was a design Benton recognised and wished he could afford. His starched shirt was open necked and he wore a cravat. His face had been furrowed with anxiety but now the features smoothed with relief.
Coming down to meet them, he said, ‘Thank God you’ve come. Sorry about the reception. I’ve been frantic. I’ve been told nothing, absolutely nothing, except that Robin’s been found dead. And of course he’d rung to tell me about Rhoda Gradwyn’s death. And now Robin. You wouldn’t be here if it was death by natural causes. I have to know – was it suicide? Did he leave a note?’
They were following him up the stairs and, standing aside, he indicated a room to the left. It was overcrowded and obviously both sitting room and study. A large trestle table before the window held a computer, fax machine and a rack of filing trays. Three smaller mahogany tables, one with a printer precariously balanced, were crowded with porcelain ornaments, brochures and reference books. There was a large sofa against one wall, but hardly usable since it was covered with box files. But despite the clobber an attempt at order and tidiness had been made. There was only one chair behind the desk and a small armchair. Jeremy Coxon looked round as if expecting a third to materialise, then went across the hall and came back with a cane-bottomed chair which he placed before the desk. They seated themselves.
Kate said, ‘There was no note. Would you be surprised if it were suicide?’
‘God yes! Robin had his difficulties but he wouldn’t take that way out. He loved life and he had friends, people who would help him out in an emergency. Of course he had his moments of depression, don’t we all? But with Robin they never lasted long. I only asked about the note because any alternative is even less believable. He had no enemies.’
Benton said, ‘And there were no particular difficulties at present? Nothing you know which could have driven him to despair?’
‘Nothing. Obviously he was devastated by Rhoda’s death, but despair isn’t a word I’d have used about Robin. He was a Micawber, always hoping something would turn up, and usually it did. And things were going rather well for us here. Capital was a problem, of course. It always is when you start up a business. But he said he had plans, that he was expecting money, big money. He wouldn’t say where from but he was excited, happier than I had seen him for years. Rather different from when he came back from Stoke Cheverell three weeks ago. Then he seemed depressed. No, you can rule out suicide. But as I said, nobody’s told me anything except that Robin’s dead and to expect a visit from the police. If he’s made a will, he’s probably named me as an executor and he always put me down as next of kin. I don’t know anyone else who will take responsibility for his stuff here, or for the funeral. So why the secrecy? Isn’t it time you came clean and told me how he died?’
Kate said, ‘We don’t know for certain, Mr Coxon. We may know more when we get the results of the autopsy, which should be later today.’
‘Well, where was he found?’
Kate said, ‘His body was in a disused freezer in the cottage next to the guest cottage where he was staying.’
‘A freezer? You mean one of those rectangular chest freezers for long-term storage?’
‘Yes. A disused freezer.’
‘Was the lid open?’
‘The lid was shut. We don’t yet know how your friend came to be in there. It could have been an accident.’
And now Coxon was looking at them in stark amazement, which even as they watched turned to horror. There was a pause, then he said, ‘Let’s get this clear. You’re telling me that Robin’s body was found shut in a freezer?’
Kate said patiently, ‘Yes, Mr Coxon, but we don’t yet know how it got there or the cause of death.’
He shifted his gaze, wide eyed, from Kate to Benton as if testing which, if either, could be believed. When he spoke his voice was emphatic, the note of hysteria barely suppressed. ‘Then I’ll tell you one thing. This was no accident. Robin was seriously claustrophobic. He never travelled by air or on the underground. He couldn’t enjoy a restaurant meal if he wasn’t seated close to the door. He was fighting it, but not successfully. Nothing and no one would ever have persuaded him to climb inside a freezer.’
Benton said, ‘Not even if the lid was propped wide open?’
‘He’d never believe that it wouldn’t fall and trap him inside. What you’re investigating is murder.’
Kate could have said that it was possible Boyton had died either by accident or natural causes and that someone, for reasons unknown, had placed his body in the freezer, but she had no intention of swapping theories with Coxon. Instead she asked, ‘Was it generally known among his friends that he was claustrophobic?’
Coxon was calmer now, still gazing from Kate to Benton, willing them to believe. ‘Some may have known or guessed, I suppose, but I never heard it mentioned. It’s something he was rather ashamed of, particularly not being able to fly. That was why we didn’t have foreign holidays unless we went by train. I couldn’t get him onto a plane even if I tanked him up at the bar. It was a hell of an inconvenience. If he told anyone it would have been Rhoda, and Rhoda’s dead. Look, I can’t give you any proof. But you have to believe me about one thing. Robin would never have got into a freezer alive.’
Benton asked, ‘Do his cousins or anyone at Cheverell Manor know that he was claustrophobic?’
‘How the hell do I know? I’ve never met any of them and I’ve never been ther
e. You’ll have to ask them.’
His composure had cracked. He sounded close to tears. He muttered, ‘Sorry, sorry,’ and fell silent. After a minute in which he stood still taking deep regular breaths as if they were an exercise in regaining control, he said, ‘Robin had taken to going to the Manor more frequently. I suppose it could have come up in conversation, if they were talking about holidays or the hell of London tube trains at rush hour.’
Kate said, ‘When did you hear about Rhoda Gradwyn’s death?’
‘On Saturday afternoon. Robin phoned about five o’clock.’
‘How did he sound when he gave you the news?’
‘How would you expect him to sound, Inspector? He wasn’t exactly ringing to enquire after my health. Oh God! I didn’t mean that, I’m trying to be helpful. It’s just that I’m still trying to take it in. How did he sound? He was almost incoherent at first. It took me some minutes to calm him down. After that – well, you can take your pick of the adjectives – shocked, horrified, surprised, frightened. Mostly shocked and frightened. A natural reaction. He’d just been told that a close friend had been murdered.’
‘Did he use that word, murdered?’
‘Yes, he did. A reasonable assumption I’d say, when the police were there and he’d been told they’d be coming to interview him. And not the local CID either. Scotland Yard. He didn’t need telling that this wasn’t a natural death.’
‘Did he say anything about how Miss Gradwyn died?’
‘He didn’t know. He was pretty bitter that no one at the Manor had bothered to come and break the news to him. He only found out that something had happened when the police cars arrived. I still don’t know how she died and I don’t suppose you’re about to tell me.’
Kate said, ‘What we need from you, Mr Coxon, is anything you can tell us about Robin’s relationship with Rhoda Gradwyn and, of course, with you. We now have two suspicious deaths which could be linked. How long have you known Robin?’
‘About seven years. We met at the party after a drama-school production in which he had a not particularly distinguished part. I went with a friend who teaches fencing and Robin caught my eye. Well, that’s what he does, he catches people’s eyes. We didn’t speak then, but the party lingered on and my friend, who had another date, had left by the time the last bottle was finished. It was a foul night, the rain pelting down, and I could see Robin, somewhat inadequately clad, waiting for a bus. So I hailed a cab and asked if I could drop him. That’s how the acquaintanceship began.’
Benton said, ‘And you became friends?’
‘We became friends and later business partners. Nothing formal, but we worked together. He had the ideas and I had the practical experience and at least the hope of raising money. I’ll answer the question you’re thinking of a tactful way to ask. We were friends. Not lovers, not fellow-conspirators, not buddies, not drinking companions, friends. I liked him and I suppose we were useful to each other. I told him I’d inherited just over a million from a maiden aunt who’d recently died. The aunt was genuine enough, but the old dear hadn’t a penny to leave. Actually I was lucky in the Lottery. I don’t quite know why I’m bothering to tell you this except you’ll no doubt find out sooner or later when you start wondering whether I have any financial interest in Robin’s death. I haven’t. I doubt whether he’s left anything but debts and the jumble of things – mostly clothes – that he’s dumped here.’
‘Did you ever tell him about the Lottery win?’
‘No I didn’t. I never think it’s wise to tell people if you have a big win. They simply take the view that, since you’ve done nothing to deserve your luck, you have an obligation to share it with the equally undeserving. Robin fell for the rich-auntie story. I invested over a million on this house and it was his idea that we started etiquette courses for the newly rich or social aspirants who don’t want to be embarrassed every time they entertain the boss or take a girl out to dinner at a decent restaurant.’
Benton said, ‘I thought the very rich didn’t care one way or another. Don’t they make their own rules?’
‘We don’t expect to attract billionaires, but most people care, believe me. This is an upwardly mobile society. No one likes to be socially insecure. And we’re doing well. We’ve got twenty-eight clients already and they pay five hundred and fifty pounds for a four-week course. Part-time, that is. Cheap at the price. It’s the only one of Robin’s schemes that ever showed any promise of making money. He got chucked out of his flat a couple of weeks ago so he’s been living here in one room at the back. He isn’t – he wasn’t – exactly a considerate house guest, but basically it suited us both. He kept an eye on the house and he was here when it was his turn to take a class. It might be hard to believe but he was a good teacher and he knew his stuff. The clients liked him. The problem with Robin is that he is – was – unreliable and volatile. Madly enthusiastic one minute and chasing off after some new hare-brained scheme the next. He could be maddening, but I never wanted to cast him off. It just never occurred to me. If you can explain the chemistry which keeps disparate people together, I’d be interested to hear it.’
‘And what about his relationship with Rhoda Gradwyn?’
‘Ah, that’s more difficult. He didn’t talk much about her, but he obviously liked having her as a friend. It gave him kudos in his own eyes, which is what matters after all.’
Kate said, ‘Was it sex?’
‘Oh hardly. I fancy that the lady swam with bigger fish than Robin. And I doubt whether she fancied him. People don’t. Too beautiful perhaps, a bit asexual. Rather like making love to a statue. Sex wasn’t important to him but she was. I think she represented a stabilising authority. He did once say that he could talk to her and be told the truth, or what passes for it. I used to wonder if she reminded him of someone who had influenced him that way, a schoolteacher, perhaps. And he lost his mother when he was seven. Some kids never get over that. He could’ve been looking for a substitute. Psychobabble, I know, but there could be something in it.’
Benton reflected that maternal wasn’t a word he’d have used of Rhoda Gradwyn, but then, what did they really know about her? Wasn’t that part of the fascination of his job, the unknowingness of other people? He asked, ‘Did Robin tell you that Miss Gradwyn was having a scar removed and where it was being done?’
‘No, and I’m not surprised. I mean I’m not surprised he didn’t tell me. She probably asked him to keep it secret. Robin could keep a secret if he thought it was worth his while. All he said was that he was having a few days in the guest cottage at Stoke Cheverell. He never mentioned that Rhoda would be there.’
Kate asked, ‘What was his mood? Did he seem excited or did you get the impression that this was just a routine visit?’
‘Like I said, he was depressed when he got back after the first visit but excited when he set off last Thursday night. I’ve seldom seen him happier. He said something about having good news for me when he got back but I didn’t take that seriously. Robin’s good news usually turned out to be bad news or no news at all.’
‘Apart from that first call, did he speak to you again from Stoke Cheverell?’
‘Yes, he did. He gave me a ring after you’d interviewed him. He said you were pretty rough with him, not particularly considerate to a man grieving for a friend.’
Kate said, ‘I’m sorry he felt that. He made no formal complaint of his treatment.’
‘Would you in his place? Only fools or the very powerful antagonise the police. After all, you didn’t exactly set about him with truncheons. Anyway, he did ring me again after you’d interviewed him in the cottage and I told him to come to me and let the police grill him here, where I’d arrange for my solicitor to be present if necessary. It wasn’t entirely disinterested. We’re busy and I needed him here. He said he was determined to stay on for the week he’d booked. He talked about not deserting her in death. A bit histrionic, but that was Robin. Of course, he knew more about it by then, and told me that she
’d been found dead at seven thirty on the Saturday morning and that it looked like an inside job. After that I rang him again several times on his mobile, but couldn’t get a reply. I left messages asking him to ring back, but he never did.’
Benton said, ‘When he first rang you said he sounded frightened. Didn’t it strike you as odd that he was preparing to stay on with a murderer on the loose?’
‘Yes, it did. I pressed him and he said he had unfinished business.’
There was a silence. Kate’s voice was deliberately incurious. ‘Unfinished business? Did he give you any clue what he meant?’
‘No, and I didn’t ask. As I’ve said, Robin could be histrionic. Perhaps he thought of lending a hand in the investigation. He’d been reading a detective story which you’ll probably find in his room. You’ll want to see the room, I suppose?’
‘Yes,’ said Kate, ‘as soon as we’ve finished speaking to you. There’s one other thing. Where were you between the hours of four thirty last Friday afternoon and seven thirty the next morning?’
Coxon was unworried. ‘I thought you’d get round to that. I was teaching here from three thirty until seven thirty, three couples with gaps in between. I then made myself spaghetti bolognese, watched TV until ten o’clock and went to the pub. Thanks to a benign government which allows us to drink until the early hours, that’s what I did. The landlord was serving and he can confirm that I was there until about one fifteen. And if you care to tell me when Robin died, I daresay I could produce an equally valid alibi.’
‘We don’t know yet, Mr Coxon, exactly when he did die, but it was on Monday, probably between the hours of one o’clock and eight.’
‘Look, it seems ludicrous to be supplying an alibi for Robin’s death, but I suppose you have to ask. Luckily for me there’s no problem. I lunched here at half past one with one of our temporary teachers, Alvin Brent – you met him at the door. At three o’clock I had an afternoon session with two new clients. I can give you their names and addresses and Alvin will confirm the lunch.’