Their ring was answered by an elderly man with thinning grey hair and a leathery face. He surveyed them hostilely, one hand scratching his back. A stout woman in a flowered apron sidled up behind him. The two presented a barrier guarding the privacy of their home.
“If you’re selling something,” he rasped, “we don’t want it.”
Kate showed him her warrant card. “I’m Detective Chief Inspector Maddox, and this is Detective Sergeant Boulter.”
“Police? What’s wrong? If it’s to do with that complaint I made about their dog barking ...”A thumb was jerked in the direction of the bungalow. “Well, they’re away on holiday. You better come back next week.”
“It’s nothing to do with the dog, sir. I just want a few words with you, please. You might be able to help us.” It would be a tactical mistake, Kate knew, to press for admission into the house. These two wouldn’t feel safe with officialdom intruding.
She smiled at them winningly, like some vote-fishing smoothie of an election canvasser. “Er ... you’d be Mr.... ?”
“I’m Fred Winter, if it’s any business of yours.”
“I wonder if you can cast your mind back to Tuesday of last week, Mr. Winter. Can you remember what you were doing on that evening?”
“What d’you want to know for?”
“We think it’s just possible that you may have seen someone using the phone-box along there.”
“Why should we have done? We don’t watch folk. We’re not nosy parkers.”
“I’m sure you’re not. But I don’t imagine that many people use the box, in an out-of-the-way spot like this, so if you happened to be looking out the window, or were in the front garden, say, and someone drive up and stopped, you might have noticed.” God, you’re clutching at thin straws, Kate!
“Well, we didn’t, did we, Mother?”
The woman instantly shook her head in unthinking confirmation. It was so much easier not to get involved.
“This really is important, Mr. and Mrs. Winter. Very important.” The sound of TV from the back room gave Kate an idea. “You might be able to pinpoint the evening I’m talking about by remembering something you watched on television.”
“Tuesday’s ‘Emmerdale Farm’ night,”, said the wife.
“That’s right. Well, it’s a bit later than that I’m interested in. More like ten o’clock.”
“Dad always likes to watch the ‘News at Ten’ headlines,” she said. “Then we switch off. Had enough by then.” She paused, her mind clicking over. “Here, it was Tuesday when that woman got killed, wasn’t it? The one at the big house?”
“That’s right, madam,” said Tim Boulter in a tired voice.
“Is it about that, then? Do you think the murderer stopped and made a phone call from here?” The husband and wife exchanged awed, excited looks.
“It’s just possible,” Kate said. “So you see how important anything you can tell us might prove to be. Please try to think back.”
Thankfully, she had won their interest now. They saw themselves as vital witnesses. Pictures in the papers. On the telly too, like as not.
“It was the evening Hilda and Perce came round,” the woman said to her husband, and explained, “That’s my sister and her hubby. I was over her place only yesterday and we were talking about the murder. Makes you shudder to think what was happening just a mile or two away, and we were all sitting here in the front room.”
“So ... around ten o’clock that evening the four of you were in your front room, talking together. What then? Did you put on the news as usual, for the headlines?”
“Aye, we did,” the man confirmed. “I wouldn’t have bothered, myself, not with them round. But Perce always wants to know what’s happening.”
“And you switched off after two or three minutes?”
He nodded. “Reckon so.”
“What then? Try to remember, please. Did you happen to look out of the window and see anyone? Did you hear a car stop?”
He screwed up his face in a grotesque display of effort. His wife came to his rescue.
“Hilda was helping me with that knitting pattern I got stuck with. And you took Perce out to the greenhouse with you while you did the watering.”
More facial contortions. “Aye, so I did. Late, I was, ’cause of them being here. It was nearly too dark to see.”
Kate felt a prickle of excitement. “So you were in your greenhouse in the front from, shall we say, three minutes past ten? Until when?”
“How d’you mean?”
“The chief inspector is asking what length of time you and your brother-in-law were out of the house, sir.” Boulter was letting his boredom with this whole business show.
“Oh, I dunno. We got talking, you know how it is, and—”
“Must’ve been nigh on half an hour, Dad. Hilda and me nearly came out to fetch you back in.”
“So while you were outside, did you see anyone in the lane?”
He shrugged. “Only Tom Howard on his way home from the pub.” He chuckled vindictively. “That wife of his won’t let him stay till closing time.”
“I don’t blame her, neither,” said his own wife. “Drink himself silly, Tom would, given half a chance.”
“What about cars, Mr. Winter? Do you remember a car that night?”
“Now I come to think of it, there was a car.”
“And did it stop?”
“Aye, that’s right, it did. I remember now quite clearly.”
“That’s good, that’s very good. What sort of car was it, Mr. Winter?”
He shrugged. “One of them big fancy ones. Dark colour.”
Kate buttoned down her excitement. “And this car stopped by the call-box, you say?”
The man shook his head. “Not by the box, no. Further along.”
“Oh? What happened? Did the driver get out?”
“Aye, he did. I thought he must’ve broken down or something. He pulled up on the verge over there.” Winter pointed. “Then he got out and walked all round the car having a good look at it, then he went along to the phone-box. ‘Gone to phone the AA,’ I said to Perce. But then when he’d made the call, he walked back to the car, got in, and drove off. So he couldn’t have broken down.”
“Gone to phone his accomplice, more like,” his wife put in darkly. “To say the deed was done. Just think, you and Perce were watching a murderer. Anything might have happened.”
“Could you describe this man?” asked Kate.
“Well ... he looked ordinary-like.”
“Ordinary?” his wife scoffed. “And him a dangerous killer!”
Kate ignored the diversion. “What sort of height was he, Mr. Winter?”
“Medium. Aye, medium.”
“Compared to the sergeant?”
“Oh, much shorter than him. Quite short, really, I suppose.”
“What sort of build was he? Thin, or thickset, or what?”
“Hard to say. It was pretty darkish by then, and under the mac you couldn’t really see.”
“He was wearing a mac? On a warm evening? What kind of mac? What colour?”
“Just ordinary. Buff sort of colour, I should think. Oh, and aye, he had one of them hats like gamekeepers wear.”
“A deerstalker?”
He nodded. “Yes, that’s what they’re called.”
“I’d like you to come along the road with us, Mr. Winter, and show us the exact spot where the car stopped, as near as you can remember.”
“Well, I s’pose ...”
“Go on, Dad,” the wife prodded. She whipped off her flowered apron and patted her hair, all agog. “You show ’em where it was.”
Kate didn’t know what she hoped for. The call Richard Gower had received could possibly have originated from this call-box. The man seen by Fred Winter might have been that caller, who might have been Belle Latimer’s killer. The car he was driving might have been Gower’s Volvo, with the driver checking it to see whether there was any obvious damage.
&nbs
p; In the interval since Belle Latimer’s death, it had scarcely rained at all. But it had rained a fair amount in the few days before that, leaving the ground soft and pliable. Kate remembered the clarity with which the murder car’s tyre treads had been moulded in the mud. Here, the roadside verge was also grassy; and, as they drew close to the spot Winter indicated, she saw with a quickening of her pulses that there were distinct signs of a car having been pulled off the road.
Kate signed to Boulter to examine the tyre marks, feeling hardly able to trust her own judgement. She waited impatiently for his verdict. It seemed an age before he straightened up, shaking his head as if he couldn’t believe the evidence of his own eyes.
“It looks as if your hunch was spot on, ma’am. The crushed grass has started to grow up again, but there’s no doubt in my mind—this car had non-matching tyres on the front wheels.”
Kate could have hugged him.
Those revealing tyre prints, which had survived for over a week without any kind of protection, must now be guarded like the crown jewels. “You stay here, Tim. I’ll summon assistance. No, Mr. and Mrs. Winter, please don’t go near. It’s vital that you don’t trample on the evidence.”
“What’s so important about tyre marks?” Winter demanded.
“It’s very complicated and I can’t explain now. But please come away and leave the sergeant to stand guard.”
Reluctantly, they allowed Kate to escort them back to the gate of their cottage. She guessed that when the troops arrived in force they’d be out at the scene again, telling anyone who’d listen how Fred had actually seen the murderer. Seen him with his own two eyes.
“Well, Mr. Winter, and Mrs. Winter, too, thank you very much for your assistance. It’s been invaluable. We’ll be needing statements from you, of course, and from your brother-in-law also. The sergeant will talk to you about that.”
“Does this mean you’ll be able to catch the murderer now?” Mrs. Winter asked eagerly. “Because of what we’ve told you?”
“We’re not quite ready for that yet, I’m afraid. But we’ve made a big step forward. Your information really has been extremely helpful, and I’m very grateful to you. Goodbye.”
Kate used the car radio to summon assistance, then she drove back to the Incident Room. Within a matter of minutes that quiet lane would be swarming with all kinds of experts. If she’d stayed on, she’d only have been in the way. No amount of hustling on her part would get the answers any quicker. Forensic procedures had to be painstakingly exact, and that took time.
In the event, it didn’t take so very long. Before she could hope to hear, a call came through from Boulter.
“There’s no question, those tread marks were definitely made by Gower’s Volvo. What a stroke of luck finding them.”
Luck? Let Tim call it what he liked. She had the answer she most desperately wanted.
* * * *
Kate couldn’t resist the temptation. She’d held out for quite a while, telling herself scornfully that it would be unprofessional, to say the least. In the end she succumbed, and dialled the number of the Gazette.
“Mr. Gower, please. Kate Maddox here.” What had made her announce herself in that informal way?
“He’s down in the machine room at the moment. Can I get him to ring you back?”
“No. Er ... if you’ll please fetch him, I’ll hang on.”
Fetching him took long enough for her to wonder all over again if she was acting unwisely. Too late now, though. If she hung up, Richard would return her call immediately.
“Hello.” He sounded cautious, not knowing quite what to expect from her.
“I just thought I’d let you know that we’ve established to my complete satisfaction that someone else was driving your car that night.”
He sounded stunned. “Who was it?”
“We haven’t got that far yet. Only that it wasn’t you.”
“So that lets me off the hook?”
“It would appear so.”
“At least I can’t fault your timing. I’ve got just half an hour to do a rewrite on the Chipping Bassett murders before I put the Gazette to bed.”
Kate was alarmed. “Hey, this conversation is strictly off the record. You mustn’t quote me. Police releases will come via the Press Office.”
“Cool down, Kate. It was what was going into the paper you’d have needed to worry about. Now I’m in a very forgiving mood. I won’t make waves for you.”
“Thanks.” A lot of meaning went into that one word.
“So what now? You took a rain-check on a dinner date, if you remember.”
“I remember nothing of the—”
“How about this evening? I’ll take you to the poshest place in the Cotswolds, and we’ll celebrate.”
“You’re overlooking something. I still have two murders to solve. And what’s more, my prime suspect has just been ruled out, so I’m back to square one. I haven’t anything to celebrate.”
Just who, Kate Maddox, d’you think you’re kidding?
Chapter Eleven
If Latimer had killed Prescott, a pre-planned crime, he wouldn’t have omitted the important detail of providing himself with a sound alibi. Kate wanted to make her call seem casual, so as to catch him unawares. A convenient opportunity presented itself with the news of the cousin from Kenya’s arrival. Alexander Stedham, she learned, was staying at Hambledon Grange ... a fact hardly designed to gladden the heart of Matthew Latimer. Kate had a detective constable ring the house and fix an appointment for her to see Stedham.
As Sergeant Boulter had a court appearance that morning concerning an armed robbery at a village sub-Post Office, she took this DC along with her. He happened to be the same good-looking young detective who’d cheeked her in front of everyone at the first briefing. Kate had already noted from Keith Aldwich’s interview reports that he was inclined to be slapdash, as if he considered the dull routine slog beneath his superior capabilities.
When they drew up outside the Grange, DC Aldwich uncurled his long legs from the car and slammed the door with a lazy flourish.
“Haven’t you forgotten something?” asked Kate, as she slipped the catch on the passenger door.
“Ma’am?”
“We have a rule in this force about locking unattended vehicles at all times. You haven’t even removed the key from the ignition.”
His expression was as near contempt as he dared. “No one’s going to try and pinch the car at the end of a long private drive like this.”
“You wouldn’t get far with that defence if you were up on a disciplinary charge. Lock up now, Constable, and make sure you always do it in future.”
“Very well, ma’am.” But his sulky eyes said, Go to hell. What are you but a bloody jumped-up piece of skirt? DC Aldwich was in for a rough ride with DCI Maddox if he didn’t mend his ways sharpish.
As Kate had hoped, Matthew Latimer was part of the assembled company when she was shown into the drawing-room by Linda West. But this was no family party; the atmosphere crackled with hostility.
Alexander Stedham was a man of about fifty, his athletic figure beginning to thicken around the midriff. He looked smugly pleased with life, a few-million-dropped-from-heaven sort of pleased. His wife was a short, plump woman with over-styled, over-tinted and over-lacquered hair. In an expensive new cream silk dress, with a jangle of jewellery at her neck and wrists, she was trying for an instant elegance that neither her shape nor her previous life-style had adapted her for. Her restless brown eyes were still sizing up this fabulous windfall, putting a price tag on every last piece of antique furniture. Two girls, just into their teens, wearing jeans and fancy sweat-shirts (also brand-new), were giggling excitedly together on one of the window seats.
Stedham made it clear at once that he was the host at Hambledon Grange now. He came forward to greet Kate with his hand extended.
“Good afternoon, Chief Inspector. Allow me to introduce myself. Alexander Stedham. And this is my wife, Mrs. Stedham.” He
gestured across the room. “My daughters, Caroline and Georgina. I understand from my, er ... my cousin by marriage that you are in charge of the investigation into Mrs. Latimer’s tragic death.”
“That’s correct. And this is Detective Constable Aldwich.”
He barely nodded at the DC. “So how can I help you, Chief Inspector? Er ... won’t you please sit down?”
“Thank you.” Acknowledging Matthew Latimer, who stood glowering by the fireplace with a glass of whisky in his hand, Kate continued, “In the unhappy circumstances, I’d like to ask you a few questions, if you don’t mind, Mr. Stedham.”
“Fire away,” he said benignly.
“I understand that it’s some years since you saw your cousin, Mrs. Latimer. Is that right?”
“Er, yes ... well, it’s certainly some time.”
“Could you be more precise, please.”
“Let me see....” He glanced at his wife for help, but Kate had an idea that he already knew the answer exactly. “Five years, would it be, my dear? Nearer six, is it? You see, Chief Inspector, I’ve had little opportunity to get away from the pressing demands of my farming operation in Kenya.”
“Quite so,” said Kate. “You’ve no doubt been in correspondence with her regularly?”
“Regularly, yes.”
“When did you last hear from her?”
“When did I last hear? I would say, ah ... five or six months ago.”
An exchange of Christmas cards each year was probably about the full whack of their contact. “Had you spoken to your cousin on the phone since then, Mr. Stedham?”
“Er, no. She was doubtless as busy a person as I am.”
“So if you had no communication with her for several months, the fact that you’d inherited the bulk of her estate must have come as a surprise? You couldn’t have known that she very recently altered her will in your favour.”
“I’m a Stedham, the next in line, so it’s only right and proper that I should inherit. Belle obviously came to realise that fact.”
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