“No more than we think you did,” Boulter assured her ambiguously. “The only way we’ll ever get to the truth is to ask lots and lots of questions and gradually build up a picture of what happened.”
“Oh, yes, I see.”
“That’s why we want you to tell us everything you know that could possibly be helpful. By the way, while I think of it, do you drive?”
She looked puzzled, as well she might. “Drive?”
“Drive a car,” he explained. “Can you drive a car?”
“Well, not really. I ... I’m still learning. Roger’s teaching me.”
Boulter jotted down a note. “Now, Miss English, to get this out of the way, you’ve already told us what you were doing on Wednesday, the night Dr. Trent was killed. But what about last Friday evening?”
She said at once, “I went out with Roger that night. To a disco at Marlingford. The Friar’s Cellar. We were there all evening, until well after midnight.”
Very pat. Boulter had a feeling it would precisely match the alibi that her boyfriend would most probably by now have given to the guv.
“Is that what Roger told you to say?” he asked in a conversational tone.
Sandra seemed totally at a loss to understand him. She wasn’t such a bad looker, Boulter conceded, if only she hadn’t been so insipid. What did she have that attracted a guy like Roger Barlow? Had he found the trigger which could turn her into a hot number? It was hard to imagine.
“Listen,” she said, as if suddenly galvanized, “really and truly Roger had nothing at all to do with Sir Noah and Dr. Trent getting killed. He ... he just isn’t the sort of person who could do something wicked and horrible like that. Besides, he was with me both times. Honestly.”
Boulter gave her a smile that was warm and friendly and understanding; what Kate Maddox called turning on his sickening charm. “You’re in love with Roger, aren’t you? You’ve told us that already.”
“Yes, but ...”
“So maybe you’d tell lies to protect him.”
She was silent, staring at him in dismay.
“Do you two plan to get married?” Boulter persisted.
He caught a glint of tears before she looked down at her lap. She was hoping like hell they would be getting married, but she felt none too sure about the depth of Roger’s feelings for her. She, poor girl, would do anything for Roger. She’d lie and perjure herself for him if the need arose. He could make use of her all he wanted, just so long as he loved her back. Loved her a little bit.
Risking a technique he’d seen Kate Maddox use so often, Boulter lobbed in a chancy remark designed to throw Sandra into a panic and hopefully give something away.
“It’s time you told us about it, Sandra ... the thing you’re trying to hide.”
She looked back at him dumbly, her pink and white complexion turning the colour of pallid dough. “I ... I don’t know what you mean.”
“Yes, you do. You’re covering up for Roger, aren’t you?” He paused a moment, and added weightily, “It’s a very serious matter, you know, impeding the police in their enquiries.”
Sandra shook her head, wildly, vehemently. “Leave me alone. I haven’t done anything. Nor has Roger. Just leave us alone.”
“Is he really worth landing yourself in deep trouble for?”
Her look of tormented love-at-bay hit Boulter like a smack on the jaw. Then Sandra burst into tears, and he found himself going to her embarrassedly, patting her heaving shoulders to try and comfort her. Why did he feel like a heel? He was only doing his bloody job, for Christ’s sake.
* * * *
“Is the guv’nor free?” Boulter asked, walking into the Incident Room at Aston Pringle nick.
A WPC looked up from her table. “Sure. And here, Tim, you can take these in with you.” A bundle of yet more reports. Boulter scanned them quickly so as to be au fait with the contents before entering the DCFs office.
“How’d it go, Tim?” she asked, as he went in.
They traded stories, concluding that Roger Barlow and Sandra English were no more in the clear, and no more suspect, than they’d been before.
“They’re hiding something, all the same,” said Boulter doggedly.
“But is it murder? A great many people have unsavoury secrets they’d hate to come out.”
“But what, in this case? It can’t just be that they hit the sack together. Roger was more or less boasting about that yesterday.”
Pointing to the reports in Boulter’s hand, Kate asked, “What’s come in, Tim?”
“There’s one thing that’s going to please you, guv. The forensic on that tree branch by the lake, and the couple of little wood splinters found in Trent’s neck. They match exactly. So you were spot on about how he was done in. Held under until he drowned.”
Noting her sergeant’s triumph at this result, Kate recalled wryly that when she’d first mooted the idea, he’d thought she was off her trolley.
“And another bright idea of yours seems to have paid off,” he went on breezily. “That one about trying to account for what money Kimberley spent after going to the bank on Thursday. For starters we had a stroke of luck. Just after lunch he had his car filled up, and when he went to pay he mentioned to the garage man that he was down to his last fiver. Then later that afternoon, after he’d drawn the three hundred, he put a twenty towards a wedding present for one of the garden hands at Croptech. On his way home that evening he stopped off at the florist’s in Little Bedham for a bunch of roses. Fifteen quid, they cost. Then on Friday morning he called in to pay a bill at the hardware shop on his way to work. Another eleven quid went on that. So there we are, down to the two hundred and sixty pounds in his wallet when you found the body. Which is a definite pointer to his having been killed on Friday night.”
Kate mused, “Do we know who the flowers were for?”
“Oh, his wife. He said so in the shop. They also mentioned that buying her flowers was a regular occurrence. Seems he was that kind of husband.”
It fitted. Kate remembered having seen a vase of long-stemmed white roses at the Kimberley house that had clearly come from a florist rather than from the garden.
“I wish we could get something really definite on the time of death,” she said. “Where the hell is Kimberley’s car, Tim? What’s being done about tracing it?”
“We’ve already had an intensive throughout the South Midlands area. Now we’re widening the search.”
Kate nodded. “Good. I’ll ring Richard Gower and ask him if he can get the registration number printed in some of the national papers tomorrow.”
“That ought to help a lot, guv. A Saab isn’t one of your two-a-penny motors. Unless it’s been taken off the road and hidden away, somebody’s sure to spot it.”
* * * *
In a leafy suburban road in Cardiff, Detective Constable Elwyn Williams stopped his clapped-out Austin Allegro a few yards along from the neat little house, the end of a terrace of four, that had once been his pride and joy. Walking in at the gate, he surveyed the patch of front garden critically. Megan was letting it go, sod her. She’d rather spend her time dashing around with her new fancy-man in his flashy red MG. There the bloody thing was now, parked bang outside for all the world as if he was the one who paid the mortgage. Got it jammy, he had, the lucky bleeder. All the fun and none of the responsibility. It was Elwyn Williams who had to keep the place going as a home for the kids. Elwyn Williams who had to feed and clothe them, plus having to cough up the rent of a bed-sitter for himself.
The front door opened before he reached it, and Gordon and Kim bounced out to greet him fondly. A fondness that was partially bought, Elwyn acknowledged ruefully, with the money that he couldn’t really afford but that he nevertheless splashed out on them during his access days—Saturday one week, Sunday the next. Megan stood in the doorway, leaning against the jamb with her arms folded, watching him sardonically as he bent to kiss the children.
“You actually managed to make it today, El, for
a change.”
“Last Sunday wasn’t my fault,” he protested. “Something came up at work that I couldn’t get out of. I explained all that.”
“Oh yes, bloody work always comes first with you, doesn’t it? It didn’t worry you that all my arrangements were messed up. Garry was furious. Had to take the kids along with us, didn’t we?”
“You’ll have me crying my eyes out,” said Elwyn savagely, and spoke more sharply than he intended to the children. “Stop messing about, you two, and get in the car.”
He had to slam the door twice before the latch held. Gordon, eight years old to his sister’s six and a half, said cheerfully, “Why don’t you get a super car like Uncle Garry’s, Dad? It doesn’t half go. Vrmmm, vrrnmm!”
His father didn’t deign to reply as he eased his ancient Allegro away from the kerb. To think that once upon a time he’d been happy, in love with his wife and thinking that life was great. God, what a laugh.
“Where’re we going, Dad?” asked Kim.
“I thought we’d try the airport.” It was getting harder and harder to find things to interest them. Things that didn’t cost too much.
“Will we go up in an airplane?” she asked excitedly.
“Well, no. Not today. But you’ll find there are heaps of things to do and see.”
“I want to see Concorde,” declared Gordon.
“Concorde won’t be there. It doesn’t fly from Cardiff.”
They both lost interest, and started squabbling amiably about who was cleverest.
Twenty minutes later Elwyn Williams found a vacant space at the airport’s short-stay car park. On one side was a bloody great Merc. Sod-all chance of him ever owning a motor like that. On the other side was a more attainable-looking car ... a Saab, wasn’t it? On his income as a DC, if he hadn’t been lumbered with bloody maintenance payments, he could almost afford a motor like that. Not a new F reg. like this one, but maybe a Y or an A. What a sodding rotten deal he’d had out of life, with Megan turning out to be such a bloody bitch.
It took no more than forty-five minutes for the kids to exhaust the possibilities of the airport. They were starting to whine. Their father steered them towards the buffet, to try and buy a few minutes’ contentment with cokes and ice-creams. On the way he bought a paper, plus a couple of comics.
They found a vacant table and all sat down. Blessed quiet. The coffee was good and hot. The page three girl was really something. Mind you, though, Megan had a figure that put her in that class. Bloody memories. Always coming back, they were. Never left a guy in peace.
He turned a page, idly scanned a story about vice in Britain’s cities, but quickly lost interest. He saw more than enough of that on the job. Down at the bottom of the page was a small headline. Have you seen this car? To do with the double murder that South Midlands had on their plate. A Saab, dark green, F registration. It quoted the number.
“Da-a-ad,” Kim began.
“Just a minute.”
No, it couldn’t be. Luck was something that happened to other people. He screwed up his eyes, trying to visualize the number plate of the car parked next to his. F reg., definitely. God almighty, he really thought it was.
“Come on, you two,” he said, jumping to his feet.
“But Dad, I haven’t finished my coke.” This was Kim. Gordon had been making sucking noises through his straw for ages.
“Bring it with you,” he snapped impatiently, and made them run all the way back to the car park. But once there, he was almost scared to look. Did he actually imagine that he, Detective Constable Elwyn Williams, had stumbled upon the car wanted in a murder case? Still, there was one consolation if he was wrong, he’d never have to breathe a word about it to a living soul.
But he was right. He checked again with the newspaper, just to be a hundred per cent sure. Then he grabbed both children by the hand.
“Come on, hurry up, I’ve got to find a phone.”
Chapter Seven
“Cardiff Airport?” Kate raised her eyebrows at the report that had just been brought in to her by Sergeant Boulter. “Does that mean our chummy has flown out of the country, I wonder?”
“Looks like it, guv.”
Kate thought quickly. She was at her desk in the Incident Room. Saturdays were no different from any other day during a major investigation. The whole murder squad was on duty, and would be tomorrow.
“I think you’d better go to Cardiff straight away, Tim. Take a DC with you. Get Wales to fingerprint the car for us and give it a careful once-over. Then one of you can drive it back here. Find out, if you possibly can, how long it’s been parked there and if anyone remembers seeing the driver. And check along the way, too. The most likely route from here would be over the Severn Bridge, so see if anyone at the toll gate remembers a dark green Saab that night—or since, come to that. Driven by a woman on her own, presumably.”
Boulter pulled a long face. “I should think the trail’s gone pretty cold by this time.”
“You never know, you might strike lucky. Meanwhile, I want to talk to Lady Kimberley again, and Lord Balmayne. And there’s also Sir Noah’s nephew to see, Aidan Kimberley. He must have arrived by now. So let’s get on to it, Tim, and we’ll liaise later.”
Already this morning Kate had re-interviewed Dr. Cheryl Miller, who’d arrived in a bad mood, especially displeased at having been summoned to the police station on a Saturday.
“I’ve already told you everything I know,” she’d grumbled, when Boulter brought her into Kate’s office. “And that’s virtually bugger-all.”
“You drive, of course?” queried Kate.
“As in motor cars? Yes, I did manage to scrape through my test. But what’s that got to do with anything?”
“I’d like you to account for your movements around midnight on Friday of last week.”
Cheryl Miller appeared to be scanning her memory, then she chuckled throatily. “I was tucked up in bed by then.”
“Your own bed?”
Another chuckle. “Now, now, Chief Inspector.” She indicated Boulter with a lazy finger. “Don’t shock sonny-boy. Yes, my own bed. My very own.”
“And were you alone?”
“You are being inquisitive.”
“Believe me, Dr. Miller, it might turn out to be very important for you to have someone to vouch for where you were at that time. A slight embarrassment is a small price to pay.”
“Huh, who’s embarrassed?”
“Then what possible reason can you have for not being frank with me?”
“That’s an exceedingly naive question. I can think of several reasons.”
“Each one of them innocent?”
“It all depends,” she drawled, crossing her legs and hitching her skirt to display the shapely curve of her calf, “on what you mean by innocent.” Boulter showed signs of restlessness—exactly as she’d intended.
Kate clung to her patience. “What do you know about Sir Noah Kimberley’s death?”
“Nothing, apart from what everybody’s talking about. I must say it’s intriguing, popping the old boy in the freezer like that.”
“You don’t appear to have liked Sir Noah any more than you liked Dr. Trent,” Kate observed.
“He was a pompous old ass. I’ll give you a little vignette of him, shall I, as a bonus. A good biochemist, but dated. He was scared out of his hidebound masculine mind that a woman might run bloody rings around him. Which I could easily have done, if he’d promoted me instead of bringing in Gavin Trent.”
She’d handed Kate a chance to get under her skin. “I wonder you stayed at Croptech, after that. Surely you could have found a position elsewhere that would be more suited to your talents?”
The green eyes flickered, then she said with a shrug, “Oh, well ... it suits me here, I suppose. The countryside is pleasant, and I have a nice place to live.”
“So you were willing to put up with a lot of aggro from your male bosses?”
“Don’t worry, I gave as good as
I got.”
“Or better, eh? Perhaps you decided to remove them from the scene of combat.”
Cheryl Miller had recovered her poise by now; the off-balance moment was already history. “That, Detective Mrs. Chief Inspector, is your job to find out, isn’t it?”
“Which I will, I promise you. You can go now, Dr. Miller.”
“Oh? Isn’t your good-looking sergeant going to handcuff me?”
“I have a distinct feeling that if he tried to,” Kate said, “he’d be the one to end up in cuffs. Metaphorically speaking, of course.”
The two women grinned at one another guardedly. It was odd, Kate thought, but there was a kind of liking between them. Certainly a mutual respect. The respect of two females tough enough to have made their own way in a male-dominated world.
As Cheryl Miller departed, Boulter let out a whistle. “My God, she’s a cool one.”
“Sultry, I’d have said. You look distinctly warm, Sergeant.”
“The way she slammed into both the dead men, you’d think she was asking to be charged with murder. It’s almost as if she doesn’t care a damn.”
Kate pressed the retractor button on her ballpoint. “Or is it double-bluff, Tim?”
* * * *
Tim Boulter found himself thinking about Dr. Cheryl Miller as he headed for the motorway and Cardiff. In the passenger seat sat DC Glutton, a few years younger than Boulter and still blessedly single and unattached. Jack Glutton, the lucky sod, was free to have a crack at any attractive woman who crossed his path. He’d win some, lose some, but what the heck? There were always plenty more. Jack Glutton had no ball and chain anchoring him to the path of virtue. Boulter heaved a heavy sigh for the glorious freedom he’d lost so long ago.
Glutton shot him an amused glance. “What’s eating you, Sarge?”
“Life, that’s what. Bloody life.”
“Is the DCI giving you a hard time?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Well, you know ... frustrated widow and all that.”
“You’re a dirty-minded bastard, Clutton.”
“Hey, it’s not just me. All the lads reckon she must be more’n ready for it.”
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