Deadly Deceit

by Nancy Buckingham

  It was the same basic dilemma that so often occurred with police personnel - the conflict of prime loyalty between job and family. Even in Kate’s own marriage that she rated a very happy one, the problems had been starting. Noel would blow his top when she was kept working late and their plans for the evening were messed up. Looking back now over a distance of years, she couldn’t be totally certain that as a married woman she would have been able to pursue her career in the police and also strive for promotion. But this was never put to the test. Tragedy had intervened. One sunny afternoon, in a senseless street accident, she had been robbed of both her husband and their three-year-old daughter.

  In the Boulters’ case, Kate felt sure the marriage was salvageable. Given the necessary will, that is. Both Tim and Julie were likeable, intelligent people, and it was a crying shame they couldn’t find a way of resolving their problems.

  ‘How are you, Julie? And the children?’

  ‘How d’you think we are?’ she retorted sourly.

  Don’t get involved, Kate, it’s none of your business. But, ignoring her own counsel, she was already rushing on. ‘Tim’s very upset, you know. Really miserable.’

  ‘And you reckon I’m not?’

  ‘Look, I’d very much like to have a talk with you, Julie.’ This was madness. Added to which, she had no spare time right now for playing at marriage guidance. Yet she still plunged on. ‘Let’s go and have a coffee in the cafe over there.’

  ‘I can’t, I’m in a hurry. Besides, there isn’t anything to talk about.’

  ‘Tim would like nothing better than for you to get back together,’ Kate persisted. ‘He really loves you, Julie, and he’s missing the children terribly.’

  ‘Been discussing it with him, have you, all nice and cosy? You listen to me, Mrs DCI Maddox, you might be my husband’s boss but you aren’t mine. No way! Kindly remember that next time you feel like poking your nose in.’

  With that Julie stormed off, leaving Kate gazing after her unhappily.

  Why the hell don’t you listen to yourself, Kate, and not go blundering in all flatfooted!

  A voice from behind her left shoulder said, ‘What are you looking so depressed about, Kate?’

  She spun round. ‘Richard. Fancy bumping into you.’

  ‘You do happen to be standing smack outside my entrance,’ he pointed out. ‘Come in and have a drink. It might cheer you up.’

  Why not? She deserved a lift. Besides which, Richard might possibly be able to help her about something that was on her mind.

  On the rickety staircase, Richard said chattily, ‘That new hypermarket out on the Chipping Bassett Road is doing wonders for my bank balance. Or my overdraft, more correctly. Six full page ads they’ve taken so far, and more in the pipeline.’

  ‘That’s nice.’

  ‘Nice, she says. A lifesaver, no less. Let’s celebrate with a ritzy dinner somewhere, eh?’

  Kate was still lost in sombre thought, replaying her humiliating encounter with Julie Boulter. ‘That would be nice.’

  ‘Nice! Is that the only bloody word you know?’ Richard grumbled.

  His office was its usual chaotic muddle. His desk was piled high with reference books, press cuttings, photographs, galley proofs and reporters’ typed drafts. Richard did most of his actual work on a small pull-out shelf to one side of it. He swept a chair clear of a stack of manila files for Kate to sit on, then slid out one of the metal drawers of a battered filing cabinet.

  ‘Whisky’s under “S” for “Shot-in-the-Arm”, I seem to remember,’ said Kate.

  ‘I keep it nearer the front now, under “D”.’

  ‘D? What does that stand for?’

  ‘Dire need.’ Richard poured generous tots into two ill-matched tumblers. ‘Mud in your eye.’

  ‘Mud I don’t need. I’ve stirred up enough already. Listen, what d’you know about Heather Bletchley?’

  ‘You already know what I know. Which isn’t much. And why the sudden interest?’

  ‘Oh, one or two little oddities about her.’

  Richard regarded her pensively over the rim of his glass. ‘If you want me to show you mine, will you show me yours?’

  ‘There’s nothing for publication yet.’

  ‘I’m not a journalist every last second of my time, Kate. There are moments when I’m just your interested lover. So what’s it about?’

  She told him, about the two watches, about WPC Hamilton’s report after talking to Heather’s cleaning woman.

  ‘In Lisbon, Heather greeted you like an old friend, Richard. You didn’t get around to telling me how you first came to know her.’

  ‘Heather contacted me, somewhere around eighteen months ago. She’s on the League of Friends of the Peace Memorial Hospital, and she was after publicity in the Gazette for the convenience shop they were installing in the hospital foyer. Heather invited me to lunch - at the Market Inn - and set out to charm me into giving the launch a good splash in the paper. I would have done anyway, of course. It was first-rate human-interest stuff.’

  Kate laughed. ‘But you let Heather think it was all down to her persuasive charm?’

  ‘Naturally. It’s always worth stashing away a few favours in the piggy bank. They made quite a do of the hospital shop’s Grand Opening, with lavish drinks and snacks. Heather, I remember, was auctioning off cases of wine that her husband’s firm had donated to raise funds. Damned good she was at it, too. Jollying everyone into parting with more lolly than they ever intended.’ He gave Kate an amused glance. ‘If it’s dirt you’re after about Heather, go and talk to Lady Iping. She was Chairman of the League of Hospital Friends, and from a remark she let drop I gathered that she wasn’t a paid-up member of the Heather Bletchley fan club.’

  ‘What did she say, exactly?’

  ‘It was her tone of voice more than her actual words. Something like: “Dear Heather, always so enthusiastic.’

  ‘I wonder why she doesn’t like Heather?’

  ‘Too damned attractive?’ Richard suggested.

  ‘Could be. God, look at the time. Before I go, though, there’s one other thing.’

  ‘Like plans for this evening?’ he said hopefully. ‘That dinner?’

  ‘Sorry, things are just too frantic right now.’

  Richard nodded gloomily. ‘When I heard about the murder, I should have known I’d kissed you goodbye for the duration.’

  Kate was fishing in her shoulderbag. ‘Ah, here it is.’ She produced the scrap of newsprint she’d found in Slater’s room in London. A triangle with roughly four-inch sides, torn from the right hand bottom corner of the paper. The print on it was to do with an irate exchange in the House of Commons. On the reverse side was part of an advertisement, offering ten per cent off something or other.

  Richard took it from her, turning it over. ‘What are these numbers written here?’

  ‘Never mind about them. Which newspaper was it torn from? Can you tell?’

  ‘The Express,’ he said unhesitatingly. ‘You want to pin down the actual issue, too, I suppose?’

  ‘Yes. I could go through channels, but I thought you’d be a short cut. The Incident Room isn’t fully functioning as yet.’

  ‘And, incidentally, you’ll be saving a few quid from the police budget? Okay, I’ll let you know as soon as I can.’

  Chapter Eleven

  The offices and warehouse of Cotswold Iberian Wines were in a large stone barn a couple of miles from St Agnes-in-the-Wold. Several cars were parked in the yard as Boulter drove in, among them the dark-blue Jaguar which Kate recognised as Clive Murdoch’s from having seen it outside Heather Bletchley’s house on the evening of the dinner party.

  Boulter walked over to the operator of a forklift truck, who was unloading crates from a shipping container.

  ‘Mr Murdoch about?’

  ‘In the office, most likely,’ the man said, pointing.

  Kate and the sergeant mounted a flight of stone steps just inside the entrance. From the small landing
at the top they could look down on the mountains of wine crates, all neatly stacked.

  ‘Looks like business is good,’ Boulter observed.

  ‘It needs to be, judging from the Murdoch and Bletchley lifestyles.’

  The woman in a small outer office looked startled on hearing they were the police. She poked her head round the door of the inner office, and a moment later Clive Murdoch emerged.

  ‘Oh . . . er, Kate, isn’t it? How nice. Or is this official business? Anyway, do come in.’

  His office was comfortable, with a window overlooking the fields and a line of alder trees along the river bank. He gestured Kate and Boulter into chairs, himself sitting at a massive partners’ desk.

  ‘I’ll have to dispose of this great thing,’ he said with a rueful smile. ‘Reminds me too much of poor Alec. We bought it at an auction sale when we first set up together, and he and I used to sit facing each other every day. I miss him, you know. He had a damned good head for business.’

  Kate cut off the verbiage. ‘At the moment I’m investigating the death of a man named Barry Slater. You knew him, I understand?’

  Murdoch’s eyes widened. ‘I ... I knew of him,’ he said cautiously.

  ‘You met him, spoke to him,’ Kate insisted. ‘On at least one occasion.’

  ‘Did I?’ His palm smoothed his scant covering of hair.

  She glanced at Boulter, who said, ‘On Monday evening of this week, sir, you were party to an angry altercation with Slater in the car park of the Lythgate Arms Hotel in Wynchford.’

  ‘Oh, er . . . that occasion. It was hardly an angry altercation, though.’

  ‘What would you call it then, Mr Murdoch?’

  ‘Well, more of a discussion. Yes, that’s it. A discussion.’

  ‘Tell us about it,’ said Kate.

  He decided, on reflection, to come clean. Or to seem to come clean.

  ‘My daughter Jillian had been involved in an unpleasant incident with Slater. Sebastian - Sebastian Knox, that is, my future son-in-law - wanted to take issue with him about it. He asked me to accompany him.’

  ‘Why was that?’

  Murdoch stared at her. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Why did Mr Knox want you to be with him?’

  ‘I suppose . . . well, my presence could add weight, my being Jillian’s father.’

  ‘I see.’ Kate dropped that point for the moment. ‘Explain what occurred that evening, please.’

  His florid face darkened. ‘Kate, you . . . you surely don’t imagine that I - or Sebastian - had anything to do with that man’s death?’

  ‘Mr Murdoch, it’s my duty to investigate every avenue open to me, no matter who might happen to be involved. So please make it easier for both of us by answering my questions directly and accurately.’

  He slumped back in his chair, palm smoothing his hair again.

  ‘I drove over to Wynchford and met Sebastian at his office. At about six-thirty, I suppose it was. We then drove to the hotel in his car, and I waited while Sebastian went inside to make sure that Slater was there. When he came back out, he used his mobile telephone to ring the hotel and ask for Mr Slater. He then told him he was wanted outside in the car park.’

  ‘I see. Go on.’

  Murdoch frowned. ‘When Slater emerged, Sebastian went over to him He identified himself as Jillian’s fiancé, and asked Slater to stay clear of her in future.’

  ‘Asked?’

  ‘Well. . . he, er, admonished the man.’

  ‘Threatened him?’

  ‘No! That is, there was no actual threat of physical violence, nothing like that.’

  ‘But there was some sort of a threat?’

  ‘You could hardly call it a threat.’

  ‘No? Didn’t Mr Knox use the words, “You lay off Jillian, Slater, or I’ll finish you?’“

  ‘I ... I don’t remember.’

  ‘Come now. Either he did or he didn’t. You were right there on the spot.’

  ‘But he didn’t mean . . . Sebastian was merely intending to convey that he could bring pressure on Slater ... as a solicitor. Through due process of law. That’s all.’

  ‘Which particular law would Slater have been infringing?’

  ‘Well, I don’t exactly know. That’s Sebastian’s field.’

  ‘So I ask you again, Mr Murdoch, why was your presence required?’

  ‘Because ... well, after all, I am Jillian’s father. That’s to say -’

  ‘What? That’s to say what?’

  ‘Oh . . . nothing.’

  ‘I suggest you went with Mr Knox to bring additional pressure on Slater. In other words, the two of you would be more effective in intimidating him. And then, because Slater refused to take heed, you decided that something more drastic must be done.’

  Murdoch went white. ‘That is outrageous! You have no right to say such a thing. I won’t tolerate this sort of accusation.’

  Ignoring his outburst, Kate continued placidly. ‘After the encounter at the Lythgate Arms’ car park, did you see Slater again?’

  ‘No, I did not.’

  ‘Are you quite sure about that?’

  ‘Of course I’m sure.’

  ‘And, as far as you know, did Mr Knox see him again?’

  ‘I’m quite certain he didn’t.’

  ‘How can you be so positive?’

  ‘He would have told me if he had. Sebastian Knox is a fine man, Chief Inspector, and you are quite mistaken if you really think he could have acted in a violent way against Slater. Good heavens, I’ve known him since he was a boy. He’s my solicitor, as was his father before him. He’s going to become my son-in-law.’

  Let’s hope not, Kate, for Jillian’s sake!

  ‘You haven’t yet told me how Slater reacted to these threats.’ As Murdoch began to protest at the word, she amended, ‘All right, then, let’s call it your attempt at persuasion.’

  His hands fidgeted with a ballpoint on his desk, sliding it to and fro between his fingers. ‘Slater wasn’t the sort of man to give way gracefully, though I’m sure he - er -’

  ‘In other words, he laughed and told you both to get lost?’

  ‘No, not at all. It wasn’t like that.’

  ‘What was it like, then?’

  In sudden anger, Murdoch broke out, ‘Slater was a thoroughly obnoxious type. He was the sort of man who gets amusement from making trouble for other people.’

  Obnoxious? That didn’t gel with the Met Sergeant’s description of him as a likeable rogue. But Kate could guess that Barry Slater might well have got enjoyment from making trouble for pompous, self-satisfied types like Knox and his future father-in-law. Still, Murdoch’s correct assessment of this aspect of Slater’s character didn’t do anything to help clear him and Knox from suspicion of murder. Quite the reverse, in fact.

  ‘Afterwards, when the encounter was over,’ she asked, ‘what did you and Mr Knox say to one another?’

  Murdoch’s anger had evaporated. Perhaps he himself had realised that his last remark had been damaging.

  ‘We agreed that, despite all appearances to the contrary, we’d probably succeeded in what we’d aimed to do.’

  ‘Scaring Slater off?’

  ‘Yes. Absolutely.’

  ‘Mr Murdoch, at no point have you mentioned Jillian’s viewpoint in all this. I take it that you, or at least your wife, have discussed the matter with her?’

  ‘Well, er . . . no, actually. Thelma would have been very distressed and I wanted to spare her. So I thought it best to leave Sebastian to reprimand Jillian. He’s been very understanding about the whole business, making allowances for her youth. Jillian’s a delightful girl, of course, intelligent, charming arid popular. A girl in whom my wife and I can be justifiably proud. But she’s still only twenty, and she can be quite foolish and headstrong at times.’ He sighed heavily. ‘It’s a very heavy responsibility, you know, taking on a child.’

  Taking on? An odd way to put it, surely? Wouldn’t most people refer to the
responsibility of bringing a child into the world? Kate had a sudden thought, and followed it up.

  ‘Mr Murdoch, am I to take it that Jillian is your adopted daughter?’

  He looked taken aback. Then shrugged in a ‘does-it-matter’ gesture. ‘As it happens, yes. Not that my wife and I have ever let it make the slightest difference, of course. We’ve loved Jillian as much as if she were truly our own. Thelma was unable to conceive, you see . . . and when the opportunity for adoption came along during one of my African postings . . .’ His hand smoothed his scalp. ‘Decent young couple. British, of course. The husband worked at the Consulate. Killed outright in a car smash. There were no relatives, and this beautiful little baby girl... So Thelma and I agreed to take her on. It was all done legally.’

  ‘Has Jillian always known about her adoption?’

  ‘Well, no, not all along. We considered telling her, of course, when she was old enough to understand. But as the child had no living relatives, it seemed the best thing all round to let Jillian go on believing that she was our own flesh and blood. Unfortunately, though, one of Thelma’s cousins happened to let it out at a family wedding. That was three years ago.’

  By which time it would have been one hell of a shock to Jillian. In other circumstances Kate would have been interested in debating the wisdom of keeping an adopted child in the dark. She said nothing, though, merely filing the information away in her mind as a significant factor in Jillian’s makeup.

  It struck Kate also that Murdoch seemed extraordinarily anxious that the planned marriage between Jillian and Sebastian Knox should go ahead smoothly. He appeared to be the type of old-fashioned chauvinist who believed that every female was in need of a man’s protection and wise guidance. Having taken on the responsibility of Jillian by adoption, maybe he was determined that she should conform to his carefully-laid plans for her.

  Kate rose to her feet to indicate that the interview was over. Then, as if the thought had just come to her, she added, ‘On Tuesday evening you and Mrs Murdoch went to the theatre in Oxford, I understand?’