by Michael Kerr
PC Neil Trueman was the newbie, and as such was the general go-for and dogsbody, his main duties in life being brewing-up and manning the small front desk, dealing with the public and deflecting the many cranks who wandered in off the street to report crop circles and other strange goings on. At twenty-two, Neil was single, still lived at home with his widowed mother, and spent all of his free time game-playing on the Net.
The case was getting to Ron. The following day he called in at the rural auction house owned and run by Charles De Mornay.
A bottle-blonde wearing a too-tight striped blouse, a black pencil skirt and patent leather high heels led Ron to the rear of the premises to where De Mornay had his office. Ron had trouble keeping his eyes off the blonde’s shapely behind, that jiggled from side to side as she clipped along in front of him.
“Let me guess, Sergeant Perkins,” Charles said, intimating for Ron to take a seat. “You have something rather special in mind for your wife’s birthday. Or perhaps it’s a keynote anniversary coming up. Am I right?”
“‘Fraid not, Mr. De Mornay. I’m here about Wayne Ingall.”
“Ah, yes. The village grapevine has it that Wayne has gone walkabout. But why do you suppose that I would be able to shed any light on his present whereabouts?”
“I believe that you’re a very close friend of his wife.”
“Is that relevant, Sergeant?”
“It could be, if Wayne took exception to his wife having an affair with you.”
Charles’ expression remained impassive. “I take it you can substantiate that slanderous remark?”
“It would only be slanderous if it were false defamation. In this case, it’s the truth, as we both well know. Wayne Ingall employed the services of a detective agency to furnish proof of his wife’s infidelity.”
“It’s what makes the world go round. You’d better get to the point, Sergeant. I have a business to run.”
“For the record, do you know where Wayne Ingall is?”
“No. Do you mind telling me why you think I would?”
“Let’s just say that I find it hard to believe that an asthmatic would take off without his inhaler. Or that he would choose to walk away in the night. I have to wonder why he didn’t drive away from the house, and take his inhaler and wallet with him.”
“Sounds as if you have a real mystery on your hands. But it isn’t my problem. I have no idea where he might be. I have the feeling you believe he has come to some harm. If that’s the case, then why would I be a suspect?”
“He intended to name you as co-respondent in the divorce suit he was planning to instigate.”
“So what? I’m a single man, and I had no idea that he was concerned about who his wife slept with. Wayne lives in a glass house, and should therefore refrain from throwing stones.”
“What do you mean by that, sir?”
“He was having a fling with the owner of Happy Trails, the riding centre. And before that, he had a steamy affair with Moira Prentiss, the vicar’s spouse. Dig deep enough, Sergeant, and you’ll find that the Ingalls’ were very liberal-minded when it came to anything of a sexual nature. Why Wayne should suddenly decide to seek a divorce, I don’t know. Maybe he fell head over heels for Fiona Marshall. I would imagine she’s a sight to behold, wearing nothing but a pair of riding boots, and wielding a crop.”
Ron left with more questions than answers. At face value, Paula Ingall was the only person who had anything to gain from her husband going missing. And that didn’t compute. Why not at least get rid of his car, wallet and asthma inhaler? Make it appear that he had left of his own volition. And her alibi checked out. She had been in Sussex playing golf with several members of the local ladies’ team.