by Deryn Lake
‘I understand.’
‘Good. What time do you usually finish?
‘About nine thirty.’
‘Will you let me into the vestry at nine?’
‘I most certainly will.’
They hung up and Tennant stepped outside to meet a barrage of cameras and reporters. They’d got wind of the fact that there had been another murder at Speckled Wood and the postman had already been bought by the Sun. The inspector assumed his ‘everything is under control’ face.
‘Got a statement for us, Dominic?’ asked an old hand who had met Tennant before on several cases.
‘Only that we are proceeding with our enquiries,’ he answered, smiling urbanely.
‘Is there going to be an arrest?’
‘I’m afraid I can’t comment on that.’
‘Does that mean you haven’t a clue?’ shouted some cheeky young Johnny-come-lately.
‘We have several clues, thank you,’ Tennant answered crisply, then he began to elbow his way through the crowd, most of whom were taking photographs right in his face. Potter, who was gallantly pushing through behind him, murmured, ‘Where to, sir?’
‘The White Hart,’ Tennant muttered back. ‘I need somewhere quiet to think.’
Ten minutes later they had reached their destination, having roared off in the opposite direction to put the press pack off the scent. Kylie, looking woebegone, served them.
‘How’s Gran bearing up?’ asked Tennant.
Kylie paled visibly.
‘She won’t go out, no more. She just sits at ’ome all the time, watching telly.’
‘Oh dear, that can’t be very good for her. Doesn’t she have any hobbies?’
‘Well, she goes to the WI. With an escort.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘A lady with a torch comes and fetches her. But they cancelled the last meeting so now she don’t go nowhere.’
‘Tell her I’ll pop in soon.’
‘Ta, I will.’
As soon as she had left them alone together, Tennant leant forward over his pint of beer.
‘What have we got, Potter?’
‘A lot of loose ends, sir, as far as I can see. Do you still think the case is somehow connected with showbiz?’
‘I don’t know. I’m going to sit down with my computer tonight. But first of all I’m going to interview old man Mickey Mauser.’
‘Are you serious? Is he really called that?’
‘Yes, apparently. He’s shared Cheryl’s house for the last few years.’
‘And her bed?’
‘According to village gossip. Apparently the postman . . .’
‘Not him again!’
‘Peered through the window and saw something or other.’
‘Talking of Speckled Wood, where’s Giles Fielding got to?’
Tennant put his finger to his lips, motioning the other man to be quiet.
‘Shush. He’s sitting over there looking decidedly moody.’
Potter gave a discreet glance over his shoulder and sure enough there was Giles, looking very red about the eyes. Tennant got up and went to sit opposite him.
‘I suppose you’ve heard the news?’
Giles nodded glumly. ‘I was fond of her. I know she was a bit wild, like. But she had a good heart, for all that. I feel as if I’ve lost a friend with her going.’
Tennant made a sympathetic noise and Potter said earnestly, ‘We’re going to catch him, you know.’
Giles looked up. ‘They came to my house and took my DNA this morning. I gave it gladly. The sooner that lunatic is caught the better.’
‘Did you see Cheryl at all yesterday?’ asked Tennant.
‘Yes, I drove past when she was getting the horses in. I waved at her and she waved back. Then I went home. Strangely enough I didn’t go out again. I stayed in and watched television.’
The inspector nodded. ‘Tell me what you know about Cheryl’s lodger.’
Giles chuckled. ‘Old Mickey Mouse? That’s not her lodger.’
‘Well, who is he then?’
‘Her husband.’
Tennant and Potter stared at one another.
‘Her husband?’
‘That’s right. They’ve been married a half dozen years that I know of, though they kept it very secret mind.’
‘Why for heaven’s sake?’
Giles winked one of his red but sparkly eyes. ‘I think you’d best ask him that.’
‘This case gets weirder by the minute,’ said Tennant, as they drove for the second time that day to Foxhall Farm in Speckled Wood.
The scene which had been bustling with activity earlier that day had now quietened down. The horses had been let out into a nearby field and the stable was still being combed by forensics, though the body had been removed. A handful of police officers were standing on duty, looking rather officious. They all straightened up as Tennant got out of the car and stood gazing around.
The farm was in one of the most spectacular settings he had ever seen. High on a hill, it was surrounded by beautiful views. Opposite the house were fields, going down to a spinney and then further, leading to a glimpse of an old house with a glint of water round it, that rare and splendid thing, a moated manor.
To the right of the farm was that spindly and slightly dangerous track, the road to Lakehurst. Had a cyclist, clad in protective clothing, cycled up this hill, panting and gasping to reach Foxhall, with an evil heart and black intent, lying in wait for Cheryl as she performed her nightly vigil amongst her beloved horses. To the left were Giles’s fields and in the distance his farmhouse. It was hard to imagine, admittedly, but had the sheep farmer stalked across those fields in the dark of night and gone to the stables to await his prey?
Behind the house stretched out yet more fields with a large ominous Victorian building dominating the distant skyline. Tennant had been told that this vast house had been an orphanage, deserted now but originally a place of residence for the children of the poor, founded by a wealthy citizen who, no doubt, had received some sort of ennoblement for his kindness to the impoverished and many other charitable works. Now it stood gaunt and somehow menacing against the afternoon sky.
Potter too stood quietly, watching his boss and reading in his face his disappointment with himself that the murderer – who apparently left no clues and led a charmed and protected life – was still at large.
‘Shall we go in, sir?’ he asked quietly.
Tennant turned to look at him. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘let’s go a’hunting one Mickey Mouse.’
EIGHTEEN
A policewoman answered the door and showed Tennant and Potter into the living room without saying a word. The inspector didn’t know quite what he had been expecting but certainly nothing like the man who sat stiffly in a high-backed chair staring silently into space. For this was an elegant man, a grandee, with a leonine head and a long mane of silver hair. He sat bolt upright, a hand on each arm, and hardly seemed to breathe as Tennant approached. He took the inspector in with a glance from his Arctic eyes that almost sent Tennant reeling, so vivid and clear and somehow familiar were they. But he said nothing.
The inspector cleared his throat. ‘Forgive me disturbing you at a time like this, Mr Mauser, but I am afraid there are certain questions I have to ask you.’
The man made no reply but lifted one long hand as a signal that he was ready to be interrogated.
‘First of all, were you at home last night?’
The blue eyes met Tennant’s and held them in an unblinking stare.
‘Yes, of course I was. As a matter of fact I had gone to bed early and got up at five in the morning and went for a long walk. When I returned it was to find the police here.’
‘You did not notice that your wife had not come to bed?’
A humourless smile flitted across Mauser’s face. ‘We sleep in separate rooms.’
There was no mistaking it. There was the hint of an accent underlying his perfectly spoken English. Tennant to
ok a guess at German.
Potter must have heard it too because he asked, ‘How long have you been in this country, sir?’
Mauser’s eyebrows rose slightly. ‘I don’t see what that has to do with the terrible death of my wife.’
‘Probably nothing. But tiny fragments of information help us to build the entire picture. So how long, sir?’
‘My mother and I came here in 1974. And before you ask I was thirty-five years old and I am now aged seventy.’
‘So you were considerably older than your wife.’
‘Cheryl is – was – forty-seven.’
The man had iron-like self control and Tennant could not help but feel a sneaking admiration for him. But yet again, just as he had sensed with Roseanna Culpepper, there had been something familiar about that handsome face and unnerving eyes.
He leant forward. ‘Look Mr Mauser, I have no intention of prying –’ liar, he thought to himself – ‘but I think it might be helpful if you told us something of your history.’
A slightly amused expression appeared in Michael’s eyes, though his face remained rigidly still.
‘Really? Am I obliged to do so?’
‘No, sir, you are not. But we have other methods. We shall find out one way or another.’
Mauser smiled, revealing a strong set of teeth, all his own.
‘Then I suggest you use one of those.’
Potter was slightly gobsmacked, Tennant could tell, but he merely smiled back and said, ‘Oh, we shall, Mr Mauser, don’t you worry.’
‘Now, gentlemen, is there anything relevant I can tell you further?’ He stressed the word relevant.
‘I presume you have no alibi for last night or your early morning stroll?’
‘As a matter of fact, I have. When I went walking this morning I saw Giles Fielding. He was in the fields with one of his sheep.’
‘Did he see you?’
‘Yes. I waved at him and he at me. And last night, when I was in bed, Dr Rudniski came to see me.’
‘And why was that, if I may ask?’
Michael steepled his long fingers and raised them to his chin. ‘Because, Inspector Tennant, I am suffering with cancer.’ And for the first time in the interview, he lowered his brilliant gaze to the floor.
‘Jesus, I didn’t see that coming,’ said Potter in the car.
‘He’s too self-controlled to be true,’ answered Tennant. ‘And I regard it as highly suspicious that he wouldn’t open up about his past.’
‘Do you know why I think he did it? To give us more work.’
‘You’re probably right. Potter, ring Dr Rudniski’s receptionist and ask him to pop into the unit as soon as possible.’
His sergeant reached for his mobile and Tennant could hear him talking, but he had switched his mind elsewhere. There were so many loose and disparate ends in this case and yet there must be some common denominator – which, of course, was the murderer himself or herself. His thoughts roamed on to the figure he had seen on the bicycle. Had that been the man? Or woman, come to think of it. He tried to envisage exactly what he had seen and recalled that the figure had been bent over the handlebars and that the upper part of the body had been covered in a waterproof oilskin with a hood which had been pulled up, concealing the face. So though those bright white trousers had made him think it was a man it could quite easily have been female. For no reason the inspector’s train of thought turned to the delectable Olivia and he wished that he could see her again.
As soon as he got back to the mobile HQ he left instructions that he wanted every bicycle in Lakehurst – and Speckled Wood – noted and examined. There had been no tyre marks left at Foxhall Farm but anything unusual at all was to be reported to him. Then he sat down to read the reports of the DNA collection team.
Most people had given a sample gladly enough but several had objected, mostly standing by their human rights. Tennant ran his eye down the list and was interested to see that Ivy Bagshot, Mavis Cox and, of course, Jack Boggis had been amongst these. Olivia and Sonia Tate had been unavailable, as had a great many other people. Of those who had given, the inspector saw that all three doctors had cooperated, as well as the vicar. Now the results would be taken to Lewes, each carefully marked, awaiting any further evidence that Tennant might produce.
He was hoping to spend a late evening on his computer, researching all the people connected, however remotely, with show business. For some deep-seated hunch told him that somehow there was a connection. But just as he was packing up his things to go Kasper came into the unit and they were obliged to retire to a question room.
‘Don’t be intimidated by this,’ Tennant said, gesturing at the general bareness. ‘I’m afraid we’re a bit limited for space.’
‘Oh don’t worry,’ the doctor answered. ‘It makes a change from visiting grumpy old patients. Now what is it you want to ask me?’
‘It’s about Michael Mauser. I believe he is a patient of yours.’
‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘Did you call on him last evening?’
‘Yes. It was about eight o’clock. He was in bed. I went to give him something to relieve the pain he was suffering.’
‘Did you see Mrs Mauser?’
The look of sheer surprise on the doctor’s face revealed that he had no idea of the relationship.
‘Who?’
‘I’m sorry. You obviously were not party to the secret. I mean Cheryl Hamilton-Harty. They were married.’
‘Good God! I had no idea.’
‘He admitted it quite freely to me.’
The doctor grinned and Tennant thought he could see why all the girls were after him. ‘Well, you are a policeman.’
‘Yes, but he clammed up about his past. He’s German, isn’t he?’
‘I believe so. He spent quite a time in Poland though. He speaks Polish fluently.’
‘Does he now? Do you know anything about his background?’
‘Only what he told me. He arrived in this country in 1975 in the company of his very elderly mother.’
‘Did he take British nationality, do you know?’
‘I’m afraid I don’t. I just presumed he had.’
‘And you think he spent some time in Poland?’
‘Judging by the way he spoke the language, the answer is yes.’
Tennant gave Kasper a very direct look. ‘Tell me, Doctor, have you any reason to believe that Mr Mauser was impotent?’
‘I’m afraid I can’t discuss that with you. What passes between a doctor and his patient is strictly confidential.’
‘I quite understand. But back to Mrs Mauser. Did you see her when you called last night?’
‘Yes, she let me in. Then she went back to the living room. She had the television on.’
‘And what time was this?’
‘About eight o’clock. I know that was late to make a call but I always treat Mr Mauser as an exception. You see, I rather admire him.’
‘Why is that?’
‘Because I think he has had a lot to cope with in his life.’
‘Such as what?’
The doctor looked vague and shrugged his shoulders and Tennant realized immediately that he was treading on tricky ground.
‘Don’t worry, Dr Rudniski, if you’d rather not say.’ He glanced at the clock. ‘Thank you so much for telling me what you have. Now, can I buy you a drink?’
The doctor looked at his wristwatch. ‘Yes, I am officially off-duty.’
They walked across the road to The Great House to find that the vicar was there ahead of them talking to – lo and behold – Olivia Beauchamp. She looked a little tired but was still as beautiful as ever. The three men stood staring at her, jaws slightly dropping, and it occurred to Tennant that they must look like the Three Stooges, and wondered what she was thinking of them.
Olivia, however, didn’t seem to notice their simultaneous looks of admiration and said with a worried expression on her face, ‘Oh, Inspector, what a terrible time you’ve
been having. Nick has just been telling me. We’ve had to postpone my recital in Lakehurst indefinitely.’
‘It’s been pretty grim,’ he acknowledged. ‘Most of all for the people of the village.’
‘I haven’t given my DNA yet. I’ll come to the unit tomorrow morning.’
‘Thank you. If you’d like to ask for me when you arrive.’
He could feel the vicar and the doctor glancing at him and, aware that he momentarily had the advantage, said, ‘Can I buy you a drink, Miss Beauchamp?’
‘Please call me Olivia. I feel that you’re almost a resident.’
‘I’m beginning to feel that myself. Now what will it be?’
As he went to the bar he saw Nick and Kasper simultaneously make a move and couldn’t help grinning to himself at the stupidity of men. Then he thought about how many murders were caused by the crassness of both sexes, and his smile faded to nothing.
The four of them sat down at a table and were oblivious of everything going on around them when they were interrupted by a voice speaking in its usual husky tones.
‘Hello, Inspector. I hear you’ve been searching for me.’
He straightened up, knowing who it was without even looking.
‘Well not exactly, Mrs Tate.’
‘I told you it was Sonia. Do you mind if I join you?’
And she sat down at the table, shooting Olivia a dirty look as she did so.
She’s jealous, thought Tennant. Jealous as hell of youth and beauty.
‘What’s everybody having?’ asked Sonia, peering beneath her lashes at Kasper, who shifted in his seat uncomfortably.
‘No, I’m in the chair,’ Tennant said reluctantly.
‘Then a very dry Martini – shaken not stirred, as they say.’
She laughed in a juvenile way and tipped her head saucily at the inspector. Then she turned to Nick.
‘And how’s my favourite vicar?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ he answered, straight-faced. ‘I don’t believe I know the man.’
‘Don’t be a tease.’ She touched him lightly on the arm. ‘And how are you, Doctor?’
‘I am in good health, thank you,’ he answered, speaking very correctly and sitting bolt upright, clearly not open to flirtation.