“Strikes us that there have been lots of odd things happening here.” The timing of the question suggested Ben could read minds. “You’ve been seen at Culford villa out of normal hours. What were you doing?”
Good to see the smarmy expression disappear from Howarth’s face. “When was this?”
“When? Is it a regular occurrence?”
“Oh”—Howarth waved his hand—“you know what it’s like when you’re busy. Sometimes I have to fit bits of work in whenever I can. If I’m passing by and need to call in, I make the most of the opportunity.”
“Why would you need to call in when no other staff are on-site and the place is locked up for the night?”
“Well”—the airy wave again—“there are sometimes tasks to do which are much easier to get done when I’m on my own, with no annoying wom—people hanging around.”
“Is your boss aware of your working practices?” Robin pulled out his phone. “Shall we ring him and ask?”
“Her,” Howarth clarified feebly.
“Her.” Robin flicked open the phone cover. “I’m sure visiting sites in the dark can’t fit in with the council’s lone-working directives. Probably breaks a host of other rules too.”
“Okay.” Howarth ran his finger around the inside of his collar. “I wasn’t here officially. It’s to do with why I asked Becky to ingratiate herself with the archaeology society. I suspected somebody had been poking about up here. We’ve had isolated incidents all across the county, and further abroad, with people—amateurs, with their latest toy metal detectors—causing damage. A proper, professional dig was needed, and I didn’t want anybody arsing around beforehand. I used to drop up here on the off chance that I might catch them red handed.”
“And did Ms. Bairstow find any evidence that they were red handed?”
“Alas, no.” Howarth stared at the turned-over patch of ground and shuddered. “I guess we should count our blessings. We might have stumbled over this happening.”
“We?” Ben had picked up on the key word.
“Ah, yes. I didn’t always come here alone. Becky kept me company. So, you see, I wasn’t lone working.”
Pru had talked about Howarth being a charmer. To what extent had he tried that charm on “Mata Hari”? “Was that all there was to it? Really?” Robin asked. “We weren’t born yesterday.”
Howarth hesitated, clearly weighing something up, before answering. “Very astute, Mr. Bright. I won’t try to justify myself because I suppose there is no justification, but Becky and I had other reasons for meeting here.”
Ben stopped scribbling in his notebook. “Like what?”
“What do you think, Constable? We weren’t playing Monopoly.”
Ben’s turn to squirm. “You were having an affair?”
“I wouldn’t call it anything as grand. I used to pick her up after their meetings, and she’d brief me on what had happened.”
“Which meetings?”
“Archaeologists, detectorists, anywhere she could inveigle herself in. We were very careful not to be seen together, and I guess with all the subterfuge, one thing led to another; we’d had a fling at university, and the circumstances made it flare up again. A brief flame but a brilliant one.”
Ms. Bairstow had said Howarth had gone out with a friend of hers, but that wouldn’t have precluded their having got it on. “Doesn’t strike me as romantic, coming up here in the pitch dark.”
“Pitch dark means you can’t be seen.” Howarth leered.
“But where—” Ben cut off his own question, much to Robin’s relief. There was a line between legitimate questioning and sheer prurience.
“Not in the car park! Mind you, that Portakabin sofa isn’t as uncomfortable as it appears.”
Robin shuddered, remembering the sagging item concerned and wondering if the damage to the springs was related to Howarth’s girth. “You said a brief flame. What extinguished it?”
“She started chatting up that bloke. The one she ran off with.” Howarth frowned. “Sian’s boyfriend.”
“Ms. Bairstow seems to have had an eye for the men. She had a boyfriend in London too.”
“I know, Inspector. But you’re a man of the world. Scandalous what women get up to.”
“Chief Inspector.” Robin resisted giving Howarth a lecture about sauce for the goose being sauce for the gander. He had more important things to say. “Given that you’ve just told me your boss is a woman, I’d have thought you’d have exercised some care about using sexist language. I don’t want to hear any ‘all boys together’ stuff.”
“I—” Howarth opened his mouth, then shut it with a snap as Robin launched into his next question.
“Why didn’t you take up Ros Butler’s suggestions?”
“Ros Butler?”
“The student who did a report on how to increase profitability of the county heritage sites. I hear she had some sound business proposals, but you rejected them.”
“Oh, her.” Howarth may have been a flirt where women were concerned, but he was consistently giving the impression of not liking them. And the way he’d suddenly found his shoes to be of immense interest suggested he was less than comfy with finding a convincing answer to this question. “Typical student. No idea of the real world. Good proposals in theory, but in practice the whole thing would have been a nightmare. Not least asking some of the people who work at these sites to get up to speed with selling online or anything like that. Some of the younger ones like Sian would probably be fine, but my older lady volunteers—”
Tired of Howarth’s ageist, sexist, probably everything-ist ramblings, Robin cut in. “Talking of Sian, is she the woman who’s coming through the gate now?”
Howarth swung round. “Yes. What’s she doing here?”
“Helping us with our enquiries.” Why did the man seem so edgy at the sight of her? “Is that a problem?”
“No. No, I was just thinking that we’d been discussing Becky, and Sian might be upset if you mentioned her.”
“That’s a risk we have to take.” Not that Robin believed Howarth’s explanation. “The university dig. We believe you tried to have it stopped.”
A flicker of unease registered in Howarth’s eyes before he calmly replied, “That’s true, but it wasn’t so much about having it stopped as using resources wisely. The county’s strapped for cash, as you can imagine, whereas the university seems to be awash with it. Foreign investment to take foreign students. If they’ve got the capacity to organise large-scale digs, then I believe they have a duty to serve the local community by targeting those digs where there’s the most need.”
Robin wished Howarth would get down off his soapbox, but the man seemed a sight too fond of his own voice for that to happen anytime soon. “Where would you have targeted an excavation?”
“On the plain the other side of Tythebarn, of course. There’s a suspected banjo enclosure there which showed up as a crop mark during the last hot summer we had. The whole area’s criss-crossed with ditches and trackways. It would make for a brilliant exploration into the Iron Age, but no, the university wouldn’t have it. Culford wasn’t even the first choice.”
“You’d better explain that.”
“There’s a wonderful Roman site right on the county border, in the fields by Stockford. Only been dug the once, a hundred and fifty years ago. Loads of artefacts turning up in the plough soil and intriguing crop marks. They’d planned to dig there, but the site got contaminated by an overflow from the sewage farm next door, and they had to make a last-minute change.” Howarth snorted. “The banjo site was dry as a bone, but the university department wanted Roman and Roman it had to have, and when it wanted it.”
There was no doubting Howarth’s enthusiasm for his subject, and the explanation was plausible. That last bit had been said with added venom, though. “Was there some issue with the timing, then?”
“Eh?” Howarth, brows knitted, might have been reviewing exactly what he’d said. “Only that it’s terribly in
convenient to accommodate people at the last moment. They spoke to my boss, and she gave them the go-ahead to come here.”
“Why didn’t they speak to you?”
“I was on holiday.” Howarth seemed to force himself to wear a more positive expression. “It’s not that I object. Only it causes a bit of awkwardness for the schools we have booked to visit. They want to be able to see the whole site, not be constrained by a load of students. My boss”—he wore the momentary look of distaste that seemed to accompany every mention of the woman—“doesn’t understand the implications. These things can’t just be rescheduled without causing a lot of disruption to staff and visitors. I suppose they’re bottom of her pecking order—”
Robin cut off any potential rant before it could develop. “Right. We’ll be making sure your story checks out, and then we’ll get back to you. Ben will be in touch to take a proper statement. And you’ll know if your story doesn’t check out, because I’ll be back, with further questions.”
Before Howarth could shake off his astonished expression and frame a reply, Robin had turned on his heel and headed for his next interview.
Sian Wheatstone looked like the sort of woman who wouldn’t stand for any nonsense. Tall, dark-haired, with an athletic frame, she resembled some of the girls who’d made Robin’s life hell on the sports field— Mixed hockey had to be the invention of a sadist. Sian proved much more welcoming than Howarth had been, opening the Portakabin so they could sit inside, then putting on the kettle for a welcome cuppa. Robin took a glance at the sofa, then opted for a chair at the table.
“Terrible business, this,” she said over her shoulder.
“It is indeed.” Out of the corner of his eye, Robin noticed Ben eyeing the sofa with suspicion and mouthed, “I know what you’re thinking. Behave.”
“I’m afraid it’s only ‘plastic’ milk.” Sian waggled a basket of small cartons, the sort they stocked in hotel rooms.
“So long as it’s strong, I’m happy.” Ben positioned himself to help carry the mugs when needed. “How long have you been volunteering here?”
“Oh, months and months.” She busied herself with tea-making; had Ben’s move been a master stroke, allowing him a clear view of her face? “I stopped for a while when I split with Jerry, because I was in a right huff, but then I thought, ‘Okay, Sian, no point moping. Pull yourself up by your bootstraps.’”
“Didn’t working at an archaeological site risk, um, stoking up memories?”
Sian’s shoulders tightened almost imperceptibly, only enough for an experienced copper like Robin to spot. “No. I felt it was almost like raising two fingers to him. I was well rid of the toerag.”
Ben spooned some sugar into his mug. “Why was that?”
“His true colours were starting to show. I hadn’t realised before just how much of an eye he had for other women.”
“Bit of a player?”
“Probably.” Sian snorted. “Anyway, at the time it all happened, I’d have happily belted Lydia one, but I reckon she did me a favour. I hoped he was Mr. Right, and the sooner I knew he’d be off with the next pretty face, the better.” Sian seemed much more reasonable than most jilted girlfriends would have been; a truly mature personality or just putting on a brave front? Although not many witnesses would so freely admit to the police that they’d entertained thoughts of thumping somebody.
“How long had they known each other?”
“Long enough.” Sian waited until they were all settled with their drinks before continuing. “I met Jerry . . . hmm . . . maybe June or July of last year. I definitely started going along with him to the detectorists’ meetings in July. There was a big debate about whether they should have a summer break in August because of all the holidays, and they decided not to and some people didn’t like it. They’re an opinionated bunch.”
“So we believe.” Robin blew on his tea, always a useful strategy for getting his thoughts together. “When did Lydia enter the picture?”
Sian knitted her brows. “Sometime in August? She’d only been around for a few weeks before she started getting in with Jerry. Then they ran off together back end of September. Quick worker, that girl.”
Ben, who’d been happily knocking back tea which must have been too hot for any normal person to drink, asked, “And you started volunteering here . . .?”
“Around July, I think. About the time I met Jerry. Sorry to be so hopeless with dates. Not my forte. You’d be best to talk to Tuckton about when the detectorist meetings happened. He’s probably got a note of the very second we arrived or left each time. Anyway, my main job is at a library—not that I actually need to work—but they can’t offer many hours and I don’t want to be bored, so taking on extra volunteering stuff is useful.”
Robin took another fortifying swig of tea; he’d not realised just how thirsty he’d got. “You said that you don’t actually need to work. How did you get to be in that lucky position?”
Sian’s smile disappeared. “I came into money.”
Robin hoped that wouldn’t be because of a lottery win; there was enough replication in this case already. “I’m sorry to have to press you, but when we’re investigating a murder, we need the full picture of anyone who might have been involved, however incidentally. You inherited the money?”
“Yes. My dad died. He was a widower and I’m an only child, so I’ve never been short of a bob or two, but now I’ve more than I need, so I can choose what I do. I know I should count my blessings, but . . .” Her bottom lip began to quiver. “I’d rather have Dad than any amount of money.”
Ben, leaning over, pressed a handkerchief—Robin hoped it was clean—into Sian’s hand. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you. On both counts.” Sian blew her nose. “Poor Dad. He’d made money in the city—which is rather a dirty word these days—but he was a good man, and when he retired early he was looking forward to the years ahead. Not just to enjoy himself, though. He would have had time to do voluntary stuff.”
Quite a hagiography. Irrespective of whether the real Mr. Wheatstone matched up to his description, his daughter clearly felt his loss deeply. “How long ago was this?”
“A couple of years, now. It still feels like yesterday. His death changed everything for me.”
This was beginning to be more like a counselling session than an interview, but Robin let it run. “How did he die?”
“He had a terrible accident. He loved walking, even though he could be a bit reckless at times. I used to warn him to take care, but if he saw something of interest—an unusual bird or a lump of old stone wall—he’d be there like a shot.” She welled up again. “The silly idiot went too near a cliff edge and slipped. He broke his neck on the boulders they’d put in to protect against erosion, and then his body slipped between them. They didn’t find him until the next day, although they assure me he died instantly.”
“That’s awful.” Robin could imagine the guilt that would build up after such an event. Wondering if you’d only insisted the person concerned took special care or if you’d gone with them, perhaps the accident wouldn’t have occurred. “Where did this happen?”
“Up near Gorleston, on the east coast.” Sian dabbed her eyes. “We had a flat there. For family holidays, or for when he simply wanted some space to clear his mind of work. I can’t bear the thought of ever going back there, but I can’t bear the thought of selling it, either. It’s probably a dust heap by now.”
Ben offered her a clean tissue. “Take your time. We can wait.”
“Thank you. Well, that was only the start. There was an inquest and then the estate going through probate, none of which I’d any experience of.” She blew her nose. “Sorry, I’m getting in a right state.”
“Nothing we haven’t seen before.”
“You’re extremely understanding.” Sian trumpeted into the hankie again, then had another draught of tea. “I got myself into a right tizzy, especially when the family started playing up. My uncle. He wante
d some stuff from Dad’s collection—Roman coins and stuff—saying he’d always been promised them. We had a blazing row, and I told him he could have what he wanted and after that I didn’t want anything more to do with the family. That’s when I moved to Merritt’s End, about a year ago. Best thing I ever did. Fresh start.”
Ben put down his mug, smiling sympathetically. “It must have come as an awful shock when they found the body here.”
“Oh, yes. Like reliving Dad’s death again, in a way. But everybody was so nice. Sarah—she took my statement—wasn’t at all like you imagine the police to be.” Sian blushed. “Present company excepted too. I only wish I could be more helpful.”
So did Robin. Sian’s life history was interesting enough, but it wasn’t getting them any further forwards. “There are a couple of things you could help with. Keys to the site. Who has them?” That was another thing the Abbotston constables should have obtained, yet hadn’t.
“I’ll copy the keyholder list for you, but it’s basically Clare, me, Mr. Howarth. And there’s a spare set we can lend to contractors.”
“Is the spare set kept securely?”
“As securely as it can be. It’s in the small safe we have in the office, but any keyholder also has access to that.” Sian shrugged. “It’s not like we have anything here that’s worth stealing.”
True. And, as Robin had suspected, any keyholder could have copies of the keys made, maybe to give to their girlfriend to access the sagging-sofa love nest, although anyone—like a contractor—who’d legitimately borrowed the keys might have done the same. This was hardly a sealed-room type of crime.
“Okay. So, access outside of normal hours. Does anybody come here when they shouldn’t?” Ben asked.
Sian hesitated, showing for the first time a degree of uncertainty. Robin shot a warning glance at his constable; they had to give the witness space to answer. At last, she said, “Oh, dear. I don’t want to get people into trouble.”
“If you know something, you must tell us. If it’s not relevant to the case, we won’t pursue it.” How many times had Robin cajoled witnesses using similar words?
Two Feet Under (Lindenshaw Mysteries Book 3) Page 12