‘Go on.’ Although the words were encouraging, the tone was not.
‘The story of Richard’s shaking her must have fled round the bank. Everyone there has heard of it, talked about it and decided on his guilt or innocence of the murder on the strength of it. But there were other people involved in that meeting. Apart from the Americans who had all gone home before the murder, there was the British client, whose deal was almost ruined and who actually gave Sarah the knife, which had been honed to an unprecedented sharpness; there were Richard’s colleagues; and there were the lawyers.’
Watching Jane Moreby’s impatience and sensing Martin Roylandson’s, Willow decided to edit much of her summary of the events that must have led up to Sarah’s death.
‘I do not believe for one moment that she was killed because of the deal. It went through at a relatively small extra cost. I think that she was killed because of the story she told.’
‘Are you suggesting,’ said Martin Roylandson, leaning foward to pick up a biscuit and a plate from the tray, ‘that someone at that meeting had been implicated in the tax fraud that Mrs Allfarthing described?’
‘Yes.’
‘It seems rather unlikely,’ said Roylandson fussily collecting the crumbs he had scattered around his plate.
‘Perhaps at first glance, but if you look more closely you might see more likelihood. Most of the people I have talked to at the bank have said that Sarah frequently made jokes about blackmailing people into doing things for her. They all say that it was her way of being one of the boys and oiling the wheels of everyday work.’
‘It sounds peculiarly unpleasant and not in character with what I have heard of the victim,’ said Jane Moreby, still obstructive and refusing to meet Willow’s eyes.
Mr Roylandson put down his plate and with an irritable shake of his shoulders recrossed his legs. Willow paid no attention.
‘I think that someone who heard about her tax story believed that the blackmail was ceasing to be a frivolous joke and becoming serious,’ she said.
‘I suppose that there is a dim kind of pattern there,’ said Jane Moreby, looking and sounding unfriendly.
Willow picked up the three sheets of her accountant’s fax and handed them to Mrs Moreby.
‘This is an account of the story she told from another source. I believe that the person who killed Sarah Allfarthing is also a member of the Bicklington-Heath family, probably a child of the married cousin.’
‘Why?’ Jane Moreby took the shiny curl of paper.
‘Because,’ said Willow with slightly raised eyebrows, ‘there is no one at the bank or in any way connected with it called Bicklington-Heath. It’s possible that he changed his name, or pronounces it differently, but I don’t think so.’
‘And you believe this character killed Mrs Allfarthing because he thought she might have shown him to have been involved in an ancient scandal? It seems remarkably far-fetched.’ Jane Moreby sounded almost disappointed, which slightly encouraged Willow. ‘Not least because no action was ever taken. At this length of time, no one is going to reopen a dead fraud case.’
‘No,’ said Willow definitely. Martin Roylandson’s head lifted suddenly as though someone had called his name.
‘Then what?’ he demanded.
‘The case was not pursued at the time because the chairman of the company hanged himself, having typed a letter admitting the fraud. I think that whoever killed Sarah might also have murdered the chairman. Something Sarah said – either at the meeting or later – led that person to believe that she knew it and was going to betray him.’
Roylandson looked interested and as though he were about to speak but Jane Moreby started first, without raising her eyes from the fax she was reading.
‘It is remarkably difficult to engineer a hanging,’ she said, ‘without leaving evidence.’
‘Evidence might have been ignored,’ said Roylandson judicially. He drew his lips into a little red bunch and then turned it in so that he looked like a toothless crone. ‘With a suicide note,’ he went on, ‘a strong motive, and – a hanged body, it is entirely probable that the local police did not even look for evidence of murder.’
‘I suppose so,’ admitted Jane Moreby, looking up at last.
‘And there are ways,’ said Willow, who had been exercising her imagination. ‘If I were doing it, I think I would suffocate my victim first with-say-a polythenebag. Not enough to kill him, but just enough to render him unconscious. I doubt if that would leave much evidence.’
‘Possibly.’ Jane Moreby sounded unconvinced. ‘But it’s all irrelevant. At this distance – what? Twelve years – no one is going to be able to prove it.’
‘I know. But we have a limited number of suspects. It must surely be possible to find out whether any of them …’ She broke off as the telephone bell provided a welcome interruption. ‘Excuse me.’ She picked it up before Mrs Rusham could answer it and gave her name.
‘Will, it’s Tom. Are you all right?’
‘Fine. I’m with your colleague now.’
‘Ah. I’ll ring you back later then.’
‘All right. Thank you, Tom. Goodbye, my love.’
‘Whether any of them has relations called Bicklington-Heath,’ Willow continued, turning back to the other two.
‘You must see that it’s far-fetched,’ said Jane.
‘Frankly, I think it’s hardly as far-fetched as that a harassed and gentle man like Richard Crescent would for no good reason that anyone can produce take a knife and slit the throat of a woman of whom he was sincerely fond and who undoubtedly trusted him.’
‘I doubt that we shall ever agree about the depths of your ex-lover’s character,’ said the policewoman rather spitefully. Willow wondered whether it was the uncharacteristic endearment she had used on the telephone that had annoyed her antagonist.
‘There are a great many problems you simply haven’t addressed,’ the policewoman went on more moderately. ‘I have already sent officers to Richard Crescent’s flat to investigate any possible burglary, but I need something more solid before I can divert any more manpower.’
‘What worries you, Chief Inspector?’
‘Where was the blood? None of the people at the bank that night had any blood on them except for Richard Crescent.’
Willow smiled, the triumph seeping back to her mind and her lips. She got up and went to fetch the police photographs from the drawer of the mahogany pembroke table. She carried them to Jane Moreby’s chair.
‘Look.’
Jane Moreby looked down at the garishly coloured portrait of Sarah’s body. Willow pointed to the long dress that hung with bloodstains like horizontal exclamation marks across its skirt.
‘Where is the plastic cleaner’s bag?’ she asked.
Jane Moreby sat very still indeed. Martin Roylandson straightened his back and asked to see the photographs. Jane handed them over.
‘Perhaps there wasn’t one,’ he said, looking through the pile.
Jane Moreby, who had been staring at her neat black-calf pumps, raised her eyes. She looked at Willow and nodded.
‘There must have been. It was yellow silk. She’d not have left that hanging without protection all day.’
‘Are you sure the bag wasn’t already in a waste-paper basket?’ asked Roylandson, happily playing devil’s advocate. ‘Perhaps she had started to change.’
‘There wasn’t,’ said Jane, sounding tired. ‘I can check the reports again, but every wastepaper basket on that floor was sifted in case she’d left a letter.’ She looked across the floor towards Willow. There was a small smile on her lips at last.
‘It seemed that the most obvious defence would be suicide, and I wanted to be certain there was no possibility of our overlooking any evidence. I’m sure there was no mention of a plastic cleaner’s bag in any of the searchers’reports.’
‘Perhaps the dress hadn’t been hanging there all day. Perhaps …’
‘I can check that too.’ Jane Moreby opened
her big handbag and took out a small, black-covered notebook in which she wrote herself an order. She looked up at Willow with a new respect. ‘What did he do with it?’
‘I suspect he wrapped it round his knife hand and arm and then when he had killed her scrumpled it up, blood inwards and put it down his trousers or perhaps in the armpit of his shirt,’ said Willow. ‘I don’t think it would have fitted in his pocket. Then he’d have retrieved it from his boxer-shorts or wherever he’d hidden it and chucked it away once he was well away from the bank. I don’t imagine you’ve a hope of finding it.’
‘It could be anywhere,’ agreed Jane Moreby in a gloomy voice.
‘I know, but there is still one chance of identifying him. It is just possible that he might have sellotaped the bundle together so that none of the blood could escape and seep through his clothes. If that’s so, he might have left a print on the sellotape. You see, if it’s like the substitute they gave me when I used Sarah’s desk it’s in a flimsy holder; to get any tape out you need to put a finger on the roll.’
The policewoman wrote herself another note.
‘All right,’ she said. ‘Who is he?’
Willow turned to look at the solicitor, who nodded his dessicated head.
‘I think he’s either William Beeking or James Certes, the solicitor from Blenkort & Wilson.’
‘Why?’
‘Beeking seems suspicious because he’s angry, unhappy and manipulative. He monitored everything Sarah did and everyone she saw. It is just possible that he did so because he knew she’d worked for the Revenue at the office where the fraud was first suspected and wanted to know whether she remembered it and could identify him. It’s also possible that “Beeking” is a contraction of Bicklington-Heath, isn’t it?’
‘Hm. And Certes? Why do you suspect him?’ Jane Moreby sounded quite unconvinced.
‘He was close to Sarah and not only often did chores for her but also recommended his clients to ask for her whenever they used the bank. Given what we know of her blackmailing jokes, I suspect she may have used them on him to engineer such favourable treatment.’
‘Supposition,’ said Jane Moreby crisply. ‘And not very useful.’
‘True. But listen: everyone tells me that he’s remarkably creative and can see ways round difficulties quicker than anyone else, just the kind of mind to plan the deception of the Bicklington-Heath aunt. One of the bankers told me that just occasionally Certes’s ideas are so creative that they create all kinds of trouble for his clients. So far he’s always got them out of it. And he’s the only of them all who wears suits loose enough easily to conceal the bulge made by a thin plastic dry-cleaner’s bag.’
‘Even if I accept that,’ said Jane, ‘there are two insurmountable problems. Like Beeking, Certes was in a meeting with Mr Hopecastle, the client.’
Willow stood up, smiling.
‘Everyone at those meetings leaves at some stage. Beeking was sent to the Corporate Finance Department several times by Jeremy Stedington and Certes left the meeting room often on the excuse that he had diarrhoea and once returned, ostensibly from the lavatory, looking quite sick. He could easily have killed Sarah then.’
‘And the doors?’ asked Martin Roylandson, looking positively happy. ‘What about the code number of the Corporate Finance Department doors? Beeking knows them, of course, but Certes can’t.’
‘I think he could.’ Willow smiled at herself. ‘But I don’t want to make a fool of myself explaining how. I need to ask a few questions at the bank today.’ She turned to the police-woman. ‘Will you try to get the tapes, Chief Inspector?’
There was a pause before she nodded.
‘Well done, Miss Woodruffe.’ Martin Roylandson checked his watch and stood up, straightening his cuffs. ‘Chief Inspector, you and I need to talk about my client’s position. I must not stay any longer or I shall miss my meeting. Perhaps we could meet later in the day?’
Willow listened while they made an appointment for half past four. When she escorted Mr Roylandson to the door, he surprised her by shaking her hand in a firm grip and congratulating her.
‘I do think we’ve a chance now. I’d never have advised what you’ve just done, but it may work out all right. Good day.’
Willow shut the door behind him and went back to see Jane Moreby re-reading the fax.
‘I can photostat that for you if you like,’ Willow said.
‘Have you got a machine here? Good. Thank you. Will you be at Roylandson’s office this afternoon? It would help.’
‘Very well.’
Jane Moreby got up and after some hesitation offered Willow her hand.
‘I’m not ungrateful, you know,’ she said stiffly. ‘If Crescent is innocent, then … then I shall owe you several apologies.’
Willow waited a moment and then said:
‘It would be better to offer them to Richard. I’ll see you later.’
When Jane Moreby had gone, Willow went into the kitchen to keep Mrs Rusham up to date and to ask her to have the photographs of Sarah Allfarthing’s cottage developed.
‘We are getting there, Mrs Rusham. It should not be too long now,’ said Willow as she left the flat.
When she reached the bank she went straight to Tracy’s desk. When she looked up from her work, Willow said quietly:
‘Did you ever tell James Certes about Mrs Allfarthing’s inability to remember numbers?’
‘I might of,’ said Tracy, looking astonished. ‘So what?’
Willow smiled. ‘So nothing, Tracy. But tell me: when you were describing her stupidity to him, did you give him any examples of the sorts of numbers she couldn’t remember?’
There was a moment’s pause before Tracy said: ‘Yes. He didn’t believe me, you see.’
‘I do indeed. After all, you told me the number of her brief case locks, didn’t you? Might you have told him the code for the doors to this department?’
For the first time since Willow had known her, Tracy looked afraid.
‘No,’ she said positively, and then added: ‘No, I don’t think I would have done that.’
Her wedge-shaped face was red. Willow knew that she would get nothing more definite, but she thought that Jane Moreby might. It seemed astonishing that anyone could be stupid enough to pass on such information and then fail to connect her indiscretion with the murder, but from all the accounts of Tracy’s errors and omissions, Willow was prepared to entertain the possibility.
Wanting a relatively private telephone so that she could ring Jane Moreby, Willow went to Jeremy Stedington’s office. Finding the door open, she looked in.
‘Jeremy? Is this a bad time, too?’
He looked up at once with the old smile on his face and pushed his left hand through his hair.
‘No. It’s a good time for me to apologize,’ he said, pushing his chair back and stretching out his long legs. ‘I really am sorry I was so sharp with you yesterday afternoon. It was just that I had rather a hairy deal on the go and I couldn’t cope with distraction.’
‘I know. All I wanted to ask you is whether you would write me a statement about everyone who left your meeting on the night that Sarah died, giving the order in which they left if you can possibly remember it.’
‘I’ll try,’ he said doubtfully. ‘Is the order so important?’
‘Only for my files. I want to produce a full account of every single thing that happened in the bank that evening. It’ll help get my mind clear,’ said Willow and then added, trying to sound quite casual: ‘By the way, was Bill Beeking involved in your conference call yesterday?’
‘Yes. You saw him coming into my office.’
‘I thought I had. Did he stay? I mean, what time did he leave the bank?’
‘Look here, what is all this? Do you want to talk to him? If so he’s out there at his desk now.’
‘No. I just want to know what time he left yesterday.’
Stedington shrugged and pulled his chair back to his desk.
‘I su
ppose he went at about seven fifteen. I stuck around a bit longer.’
‘Thank you,’ said Willow. It was quite possible that Beeking could have got to the Blewton mill if he had left then and been lucky with the traffic. ‘What sort of car does he have?’
‘Pocket rocket – Peugeot 205 – like everyone else at his level.’
‘Thanks,’ said Willow, leaving the office before Jeremy could ask her any more questions. She would have to wait to ring Jane Moreby until Jeremy had left his office. Back at the carrel that had once been Sarah’s, Willow dialled the chief executive’s secretary to ask for an appointment with the great man.
‘I am afraid that he has had to go out to an urgent meeting. Miss King,’ said Annabel, sounding pleased with herself. ‘He is unlikely to be back until early this afternoon.’
‘Oh dear. Have I only just missed him?’
‘By about half an hour.’
Wishing she could ask whether the police had had time to demand the taped records of Sarah’s telephone conversations, Willow arranged to see him at three o’clock and put down the telephone. She heard someone walking behind her and whirled round in her swivel chair, almost overbalancing.
‘Maggie! You startled me.’
‘I am sorry, Miss King,’ said the girl. ‘It’s just that I’m likely to have a bit of free time this afternoon, round about four o’clock. I’ll have finished all the reports by then and the boys will take some time to finish the next drafts.’
There was a charming, rueful smile on her face, which made Willow sympathize with the frustrations of her secretarial life.
‘Do you suppose there’s a free meeting room? It would help if we could talk in private.’
‘Yes. Number four will be free then. It’s a tiny one with no natural light,’ said Maggie, looking a bit surprised. ‘Shall I book it?’
‘Would you? That would be wonderful,’ said Willow, waiting until Maggie had gone to turn on her computer and put in a little time reading the last few completed questionnaires that the bankers had been returning to her over the previous few days.
Bloody Roses Page 29