by Laura Wilson
*
Colville Road to White City Estate = 2.5m (approx 15 mins drive but depends on where Bentley was parked in Notting Hill – may have taken longer due to disturbance)
Bentley spotted by O’Driscoll ‘quite a while after 11 p.m.’
How long spent on White City Est and doing what? N.B. Both Knight and Halliwell live there.
White City Estate to Bryanston Mews = 4.5 to 5m (approx 15–20 mins drive)
GR says he was with AS for ‘a couple of hours’ – she confirmed but gave time of arrival at abt 10.30 p.m.
Bryanston Mews to Lower Belgrave St = 1.5 to 2m (approx 10 mins drive)
I arrive Lower Belgrave St at approx 2 a.m. & leave 30–40 mins later. GR claimed to have been there since around midnight (‘TV was finished’)
AS says GR phoned her at 2.45 a.m. and told her Mrs R was dead
*
If Rutherford had done all of that, Stratton thought, he’d been a very busy boy indeed, and – supposing that he’d returned home shortly before Stratton had arrived at 2 a.m. – he could only have been at April Scott’s flat for an hour and a half at most, as it didn’t seem possible that he could have arrived there very much before midnight. And while Gloria was prepared to dash into danger for her man, Stratton was fairly sure that April Scott was more interested in looking after number one. He was also willing to bet that whatever she’d told him, she’d been angry and alarmed when Rutherford had suddenly appeared; a little well-organised diversion was one thing, but unexpected arrivals in the middle of the night, quite another.
*
If she was dismayed to see him again so soon, April Scott covered it well. Stratton had been half hoping that he might find Giles Rutherford with her, but she was alone. He noticed she’d taken the bracelet off, and that the plush front room was less tidy than it had been that morning. There were more records scattered across the thick pink carpet, items of clothing draped over chairs and cups and ashtrays on the surfaces. There was an enormous spray of red roses in a vase on the mantelpiece, and the largest box of chocolates Stratton had ever seen lay on the sofa, lid off.
‘Had visitors?’
‘Just a girlfriend.’ April leant over and rested her arms on the low back of an armchair, displaying her cleavage to best advantage. Stratton doubted that someone like her would have any actual female friends – she was too pretty and too predatory for that – but she might, he thought, have female allies: other girls who lived on their wits with an eye on the main chance. They were not, he thought, the sorts of relationships where flowers and chocolates were exchanged – quite apart from anything else, these woman were takers of gifts, not givers.
Without waiting to be asked, Stratton sat down on the sofa and helped himself to one of the chocolates. ‘Very cosy. Bring you these, did she? And –’ mouth full, he nodded at the roses – ‘those?’ Seeing her hesitate, he continued, ‘Very good friends you must have … Unless, of course, they’re from Rutherford?’ Still, she said nothing. ‘A thank you present, perhaps, for keeping the nasty policeman off his back.’
April stuck out her chin and said, ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Oh, I think you do. But as you said, you weren’t really sure what time Rutherford arrived here, so you might have made a mistake.’
‘I didn’t.’ The angle of April’s chin looked more determined than ever.
‘Really?’ Stratton dug into the chocolates again. ‘I must say, these are delicious. Must have cost a packet. And the roses too – magnificent – but you do need to decide which way to jump, love. I mean,’ Stratton settled back and crossed his legs, ‘obviously, with Mrs Rutherford being who she is, there’s bound to be a lot about all this in the newspapers. If Mr Rutherford is arrested, which I have to say is looking likelier by the minute, well, you’ll be in the papers, too. Photos, I shouldn’t wonder. And that’s going to make Mr Perlmann look rather foolish, isn’t it? There he is, paying for this lovely flat in good faith, and all these beautiful things, and there you are, carrying on behind his back.’ He paused to look around the room. ‘Be a shame to lose all this, wouldn’t it?’ Stratton had banked on the fact that nobody’d told April about the heart attack and judging from the look on her face, he’d been right.
‘Of course,’ he continued, ‘you may be banking on the fact that now Mrs Rutherford’s no longer with us you’ll be able to take her place. I imagine that Rutherford has promised you something along those lines in return for backing up his story, but personally, I wouldn’t recommend becoming the next Mrs Rutherford – not unless you’re an unusual sort of girl who enjoys prison visiting. Besides which – in case you hadn’t realised – Rutherford may look wealthy, but the money’s all on her side, not his. If, on the other hand,’ Stratton paused to select another chocolate, ‘because obviously it’s important to consider everything – you were just hopping into bed with Rutherford out of the kindness of your heart and what you actually want is for Danny to divorce his wife and make you the next Mrs Perlmann, then giving Rutherford an alibi is a sure way to do yourself out of what promises to be a very cushy number.’ Sensing that April, who was now bolt upright, arms crossed protectively over her bosom and staring at him pop-eyed, was about to speak, he held up a finger to forestall her. ‘The other thing you need to consider is that we now have an independent witness who saw Rutherford at the party at eleven o’clock, which is half an hour after you claim he arrived here. We have another witness who saw him somewhere else even later than that, and as both these claims are verifiable, you’re going to end up being branded a liar as well as a whore. I can see,’ Stratton picked out another chocolate and held it up for inspection, ‘that it must be a bit of a facer. Of course if you decide to tell me the truth now, we might be prepared to try and keep your name out of it, and you can always explain how Rutherford tried to get you to lie on his behalf. You never know your luck – Mr Perlmann might even be sympathetic. You might end up like a pig in clover and, if that’s the case, I hope it keeps fine for you. But – and it’s a very big “but” indeed – you might end up screwed either way. I mean that only in the financial sense, of course, because you’ve already been screwed either way in the other sense, haven’t you, darling?’
Popping the chocolate into his mouth, Stratton stretched both arms expansively over the back of the sofa and looked at April, his head cocked on one side. While he’d been talking, her expression had run the gamut from outrage to confusion. Looking at her now, he could almost see the cash register behind her eyes. ‘Whenever you’re ready,’ he said. ‘Unless you’d like me to explain all that again.’
‘No,’ said April, sullenly. ‘I’ll tell you.’
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
There was no flashy leg-crossing this time – April sat primly, knees together, on the edge of the seat and smoothed down her skirt while Stratton took out his notebook. ‘Off you go, then.’
‘I suppose he arrived at about a quarter to one.’
‘You suppose, or you’re sure?’
‘I was asleep. When I said I wasn’t expecting him, that was true. The doorbell woke me. I looked at the clock on my bedside table and I can’t remember the exact time, but it was about then. When I let him in, he said about the party – you know, being dull – and he asked me for a drink, so I got him one.’
‘Did you have the impression he’d been drinking before he arrived?’
‘Well, he’d been to a party, hadn’t he?’
‘It doesn’t necessarily follow.’
April considered this, then said, ‘He wasn’t slurring his words or anything. He seemed more … unsettled.’
‘How did he look?’
April considered this, then said, ‘Untidy. His hair and his clothes. From the explosion, I suppose.’
‘Did he say anything about that?’
‘Only when he phoned me later. When he arrived, I said something about what on earth had he been doing but he wouldn’t tell me. He just kept saying he wanted a drink, and
then he went up to the bathroom. I went to get the bottle and the glasses, and I took them upstairs—’
‘You told me you had champagne. Was that what he asked for?’
‘No, but I didn’t have anything else.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, really. Danny doesn’t drink.’
‘Go on.’
‘Well, Giles came out of the bathroom after a while, and he said he was sorry for disturbing me and why didn’t I go back to bed—’
‘Was he dressed?’
‘Yes. He was rubbing his hair with a towel—’
‘Did he have a bath, or just a wash?’
‘He didn’t have a bath. He must have washed in the basin, because it was dirty.’
‘What kind of dirt?’
April looked puzzled. ‘Just … you know. There was a tidemark.’
‘Earth?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t think so. Just a grey mark.’
‘Had he washed his hair?’
April shook her head. ‘Not properly, anyway. He hadn’t used any shampoo. I think it was just wet at the front from where he’d washed his face.’
‘What did he say after that?’
‘Not very much. I’d got into bed, and I was sitting up and he sat down on the edge of the bed and had a drink and held my hand …’ April sighed. ‘I didn’t really feel like talking to him after he’d just barged in like that. I mean, what if Danny had been here?’
‘Did you say that?’
‘Yes. He said he was sorry, but he’d had a bad evening and he was fed up and wanted to see me, and he kept stroking my arm and trying to kiss me. I told him to get off because I wasn’t interested … I suppose we must have argued about it for a bit, and he drank the rest of the champagne – I only had one glass – and then he said he’d better get home because Virginia would be wondering where he’d got to. So I said, “Good idea,” or something like that.’
‘He definitely said his wife would be wondering where he’d got to, did he?’ asked Stratton.
‘Yes. I’d asked him – before, I mean – if he’d left the party without her, and he said something about how he wasn’t going to stay and watch her making herself ridiculous.’
‘Did he say why she was making herself ridiculous?’
‘No – and I wasn’t interested. To be honest, I just wanted him to go.’
‘And when did he go?’
‘Quite soon after that. He was only here for about half an hour.’
‘So that would have been about a quarter past one?’
‘Yes. I saw him out and went back to bed.’
‘You said he telephoned you at about a quarter to three. Is that true?’
‘Yes. That happened exactly as I told you.’
‘How much do you know about Mr Rutherford’s financial affairs?’
‘I don’t know anything. He didn’t talk to me about those things.’
‘What about when he was here with Mr Perlmann – or were you lying about that?’
‘No, I wasn’t. Danny did bring him here sometimes, to play cards. That’s how we met.’
‘And did they talk about business then?’
‘I suppose so.’ April sounded dismissive. ‘They mentioned property, solicitors … I don’t know, things like that. It wasn’t anything to do with me.’ This came out almost as a whine. ‘I didn’t pay attention.’
‘Perhaps you should, next time.’ Stratton tucked his notebook back into his jacket. ‘You never know, you might learn something to your advantage.’ April’s beautiful painted eyes bulged with fury, but she said nothing. ‘Did Rutherford bring you the flowers and chocolates himself, or did he send them?’
‘Sent them.’
‘Who delivered them?’
‘A man. I don’t know him.’
‘Someone from the flower shop? Have a job finding one open on a Sunday. Or a shop that sells boxes of chocolates, come to that.’ As he spoke, Stratton heard Laskier’s voice in his head: Perlmann keeps boxes of chocolates to give their wives … The club had been well stocked with flowers too, hadn’t it? Perlmann, of course, was in hospital, but presumably there’d have been somebody else at the club willing to give them to him.
‘I don’t know! I didn’t ask him.’
‘But he said they were from Rutherford?’
‘Yes.’
‘Describe him.’
‘Tall,’ said April without hesitation. ‘Very big – huge, in fact – with a foreign accent, but I don’t know what it was.’
‘Was it anything like Danny Perlmann’s accent?’
‘A bit, I suppose. Yes.’
Stratton assumed it was the giant, Jan. ‘Thank you.’ He rose. ‘That’s all for the time being, Miss Scott.’ April accompanied him to the door, tight-lipped, shoulders hunched.
‘I’m sure you’ve made the right decision,’ he said, ‘but don’t think about going anywhere, will you? We’ll need to talk to you again. Thank you for your cooperation – and thanks for the chocolates. They really were delicious.’
He could feel April glaring at his back as he went down the stairs.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Stratton got into the car, wincing at the heat of the leather seat, then wound down both front windows, loosened his tie and lit a cigarette. It was just gone half past four, and he couldn’t be more than ten minutes’ drive from the Rutherfords’ house in Lower Belgrave Street. Definitely worth a try, he thought.
The door was opened by a neatly dressed middle-aged woman, greying hair swept back from her face. ‘Mrs Boyce?’ Seeing her eyes widen at the sight of his black eye, he quickly held up his warrant card. ‘DI Stratton, from Harrow Road Station. Is Mr Rutherford here?’
‘I’m afraid not.’
‘When do you expect him back?’
‘I’m afraid he didn’t mention a time.’ The housekeeper’s voice was deliberately and politely neutral, and she seemed composed enough, but a reddened, slightly rabbity look about her eyes and nose told him that she’d been crying.
‘Did he say where he was going?’
‘I’m afraid I don’t know.’
‘Not to worry,’ said Stratton cheerfully. ‘I take it that you are aware of what’s happened?’
‘Yes.’ For a second Mrs Boyce’s careful expression of professional courtesy wavered. ‘Mrs Rutherford,’ she said, not meeting his eye. ‘Yes, Mr Rutherford told me.’
‘Quite a nasty shock, I imagine,’ said Stratton. ‘Perhaps, as I’m here, we might have a quick word?’
‘With me?’ The housekeeper looked bewildered. ‘I spoke to the police this morning.’
‘I’m in charge of this investigation, Mrs Boyce, and I’d like to talk to everyone connected with Mrs Rutherford,’ said Stratton gently. ‘Much better to do it here …’ He stopped, leaving the words ‘than down at the station’ hanging in the air between them.
*
‘Do you take sugar, Inspector?’
‘No, thanks.’ Stratton smiled encouragingly. ‘Gave it up during the war.’
‘I think a lot of people did,’ said Mrs Boyce. Sitting at the table in her basement kitchen, away from the eyes of the street with a cup of tea, she was already more relaxed.
‘Were you here then?’
She shook her head. ‘The family had the London house shut up for the duration.’
‘When you say “family”,’ asked Stratton, ‘whose family do you mean?’
‘Mrs Rutherford’s,’ said the housekeeper sharply. ‘Her father – you know he’s the Viscount Purbeck?’
‘No.’ Stratton made a note. ‘I didn’t.’
‘Well, he is.’
‘So he’s still alive?’
Mrs Boyce nodded. ‘Ninety-four years old. Lady Purbeck died a couple of years ago. The estate’s in Herefordshire – there were a lot of staff there until the war, but it’s pretty well shut up now. The only son was killed at El Alamein so when Lord Purbeck dies the title will be extinct. He gave Mrs Rutherford this
house when she married.’
‘When was that?’
‘The summer of 1953. Just after the Coronation.’
‘And you worked for the family before, did you?’
‘Yes. I started as a parlourmaid in 1924.’ As she stared critically at her cup and saucer and made a minute adjustment to her spoon Stratton imagined, in her mind’s eye, the long vista of years filled with polished furniture, beaten carpets, laid fires and perfectly ironed piles of snowy laundry. ‘Not many left like me now.’
‘No,’ Stratton agreed, wondering if she’d stayed for lack of a better offer, or if there was some tragedy that had overturned her hopes for a future in a home of her own. The ‘Mrs’, he was fairly sure, was an old-fashioned courtesy. ‘Your loyalty does you credit,’ he said.
Mrs Boyce ducked her head and made another adjustment, this time to the embroidered cloth on the carefully presented tray, then took a lace-edged handkerchief from the sleeve of her dress and dabbed at her eyes. ‘Forgive me, Inspector. As you say, it’s a shock.’
‘I’m sure it is,’ said Stratton. ‘After all, you’d known her since she was quite young, hadn’t you?’
‘Yes. I came here with her when she married. She was always very kind, Inspector – thoughtful, even as a child. She was our favourite – the staff, I mean. We were all so fond—’ She broke off, shaking her head in distress at her tears, lips pressed together in a quivering line.
‘Perhaps,’ said Stratton, ‘you could tell me something about her? It always helps, when someone dies in … well, let’s say unusual circumstances … if we can build up a picture of what they were like. From the people who knew them best, I mean. You needn’t worry,’ he added. ‘Anything you tell me about Mrs Rutherford will be treated in the strictest confidence.’
‘Well,’ Mrs Boyce leant forward with an air of disclosure, ‘she didn’t have an easy time of it. Lady Purbeck … I don’t mean to speak ill of the dead, but she’d been a great beauty in her day, and Mrs Rutherford’s older sister was lovely too. She made a very good marriage – an American businessman, very wealthy. I’m afraid that they could sometimes be quite … unkind … People do tend to see beauty all on the surface, you know. There was a young man during the war, but the family didn’t think he was suitable so she broke it off. And she wasn’t young then – nearly thirty. I suppose,’ Mrs Boyce moved the milk jug fractionally to the left, aligning it with the teapot, ‘that he wasn’t suitable really. He was a curate. No money, of course, and he’d been turned down for military service, which didn’t help matters. I always thought,’ she frowned suddenly at something across the room, ‘that he really did love her. It was a shame. Excuse me a moment.’ Mrs Boyce rose and began adjusting various pieces of crockery on the dresser. Her back to Stratton, she continued, ‘We always thought that Lady Purbeck saw her as rather an embarrassment – still a spinster long after all her friends’ daughters had married, and of course they pitied her for it. I think – as the years passed, you know, and no one else came along – that they began to regret not letting her marry the clergyman.’