Boulter gave an embarrassed laugh. “You ought to be able to figure it out, guv, the way you always seem to come up with answers to everything.”
“Well, this time I can’t.” She added persuasively, “Come on, Tim, tell me as a friend.”
The sergeant peeled back the corner of a sandwich and inspected the contents without interest, closing it again with a sigh.
“It’s Don Trotton,” he finally muttered. Then he burst out accusingly, “What the hell do you expect, getting involved with him like that?”
Kate felt a sick clawing in her stomach. “What are they saying, Tim? What am I supposed to have done?”
“You tell me.” He sounded bitter. “You were there.”
“All right, I will,” she said on a note of cold dignity. “While you were in Cardiff, a chance of a house came up, but I lost it because Superintendent Joliffe held me up and I couldn’t keep the appointment to view. Trotton happened to be around at the time and I let off steam to him. Later, he came back and told me there might be a flat becoming vacant where he lives. He said that his own flat was almost identical, and he suggested that I took a look at his to see if the one like it would suit me.”
“And you went to Trotton’s place?” asked Boulter incredulously. “Just like that?”
“Why the hell not? I realized immediately I got there that the flat wouldn’t be any good for me, since it only has one bedroom. I told him so, and not to be too unfriendly I stayed to have a drink with him. Being Don Trotton, of course, he had to make a pass, and I had to slap him down— hard.”
“That’s not the way he’s telling it,” said Boulter grimly, and bit into a sandwich as if he didn’t relish it in the least.
“Come on,” Kate said, “I’ve got to know the worst. What’s Don been saying?”
Boulter frowned into his beer. “Look, guv, it’s not fair, putting the squeeze on me like this.”
“You reckon it’s fair for me to be slandered?” she retorted. “Not be in a position to hit back? I need to know exactly what story he’s been telling.”
“You won’t get anything on Don Trotton, he’s too bloody smart for that. It’s all nudge-nudge, wink-wink stuff.” And anyway, he was quite plainly thinking, most of what Trotton had hinted at was in all probability true. The thought that her sergeant felt disappointed in her made Kate feel twice as rotten.
“Okay, then, let me guess what Don Trotton is suggesting happened,” she said sourly. “Kate Maddox jumped at the chance to drop by at his flat, and literally flung herself at him the minute she got there. Right so far?”
Boulter shuffled his feet under the table and stared down at his empty glass.
“All right, all right, don’t answer,” Kate said. “We can’t hang about here anyway—we’ve got far too much to get through today. Drink up!”
But getting on with the job was easier said than done. It seemed impossible to make her brain function. Kate was tempted to have a real showdown with that bastard Trotton, but she knew it would be a useless exercise. As Boulter had pointed out, he was too bloody smart to have said anything she could nail him for. She’d end up even more humiliated than ever.
During the afternoon Richard Gower phoned to ask if there was any possibility of their getting together for dinner that evening. Kate was very ready to accept. When he added that he’d picked up a snippet of information she might find useful, it helped square her conscience about knocking off work earlier than she’d planned. It would be wonderful to get out of this hateful atmosphere for a while. To breathe some unpolluted air.
Kate went home just after six to bath and change. This evening she felt an urge to look specially feminine—for her own benefit as much as for Richard’s. She put on a slim-cut dress in shrimp pink silk. Felix gave a whistle when she went downstairs.
“My word, that’ll knock him sideways, girl. Special occasion, is it?”
“I just felt like dressing up a bit for a change. Ah, there’s Richard’s car. See you, Felix.”
Richard drove her to the Old Tithe Barn, a classy restaurant near the Dodford polo ground. “My treat again this evening,” he said as they left the car and walked towards the entrance.
“My God, you must be feeling flush.”
“I just sold six full-page ads to the new supermarket that’s opening in Marlingford. Twice what I’d expected to get from them. So you can indulge your expensive tastes to the limit.”
“I never do come cheap,” she threw back. They grinned at one another. He’s a really nice guy, Kate, a million miles from that turd Trotton.
The overdone deference shown to patrons of the Old Tithe Barn would normally have stifled Kate. But this evening she felt in a mood to be fawned upon. Sitting over drinks in the intimate cocktail bar, the process of ordering their dinner became a summit conference at which headwaiter and wine-waiter engaged in grave debate.
When they were left alone, Richard said, “You look great tonight, Kate. And even more important, you look relaxed.”
“About time, too. I’ve had a bitch of a day.” She intended him to think she meant with the case.
“I almost hesitate to bring up my little item of news,” he said. “You could do with a complete break from work.”
“Spill it.”
“I went up to London yesterday,” he said. “It was a small get-together with some of the people at my old paper. The City editor is retiring, and he and his wife decided to throw an impromptu for intimates. As distinct from the official office function, that is. I was planning to ask you along, but after the treatment you gave me on Saturday night, it seemed best to skip the idea.”
“Some other occasion,” she said, with a grin of apology.
“Anyhow, the thing is I got talking to Hugh Bradley, the Monitor’s music critic. Knowing that I was now down in this neck of the woods, he soon brought the conversation around to our local murders. He’s interested, of course, because one of the victims was Dame Vanessa Logan’s husband.”
“And?” Richard, being a journalist, liked to tell a story for maximum dramatic effect.
“Several fascinating things. Like, for instance, the reason Dame Vanessa suddenly decided to accept Sir Noah’s proposal of marriage after ten years of beseeching on his part. Okay, okay, I’m getting there. At that time she was right at the top of the tree, as you know, but it seems that the word among the cognoscenti was that her voice was showing distinct signs of cracking up on her. Before much longer, everyone would realize it and she’d be past history as a prima donna. She decided that a romantic late-in-life marriage would make for a happier retirement.”
“Like that, eh? Then it wasn’t a love-match with Sir Noah?”
“More like an affection match, as far as she was concerned. Hugh reckons she was genuinely fond of the old boy. The chances are, though, that he’d never have won her hand but for the problem with her voice.”
“But Lady Kimberley continued to sing in public. I gather she’s done quite a number of charity galas since her marriage.”
“Not quite the same thing, according to Hugh, as the strain on her voice of regular appearances on the professional stage. Besides, she can be selective about what she sings now, choosing arias that aren’t too taxing vocally. Her technique, plus a benevolent audience, will obscure any weaknesses. Charity appearances offer Vanessa Logan a chance to stay in the public eye without risk to her reputation.”
“So, she isn’t quite the paragon she’d have people believe.”
Richard shrugged. “Who is? Scratch the surface of anyone’s life, and you get dirt under your fingernails.”
“You don’t need to tell me. Still, all this is food for thought.”
“There’s more.”
“Out with it, then,” she said impatiently.
“This is a bit more speculative, Kate. Good enough for a journalist to work on, maybe, but is it good enough for the police? It’s being whispered around in musical circles that Logan’s sore throat the other night was pure
myth.”
“That possibility occurred to me, too,” Kate told him. “What’s the theory based on?”
“Shrewd guesswork. She appeared at the theatre around four that afternoon, for a rehearsal. Which in this case merely meant a run-through of the programme with the orchestra. I gather that Logan didn’t give her singing full voice, but this was a rehearsal, after all. There was no mention to anyone of her having throat trouble. Yet a couple of hours later it was announced that she was indisposed and unable to appear.”
She’d been right, then, the sore throat was a fake. Should she believe anything else she’d been told about that Friday evening? Lady Kimberley and Lord Balmayne could have been anywhere during those vital hours, doing anything. The loyalty of the manservant, as reported by DC Bell, could probably be counted on to back up any kind of false alibi.
It was discreetly whispered in Richard’s ear that their table now awaited their pleasure whenever sir and madam cared to make the effort of moving to the restaurant. Richard’s limp was barely noticeable this evening, just adding a hint of mystery. Dressed now in a dark suit, groomed for an evening out, he looked damned attractive.
Seated at their table, he said, “So DCI Maddox has had one bitch of a day. Ditto on Saturday. Sounds as if something’s badly wrong. Want to talk about it?”
Suddenly she felt ready to. “You want me to cry on your shoulder?”
“Why not, if it’ll help?”
“The truth is, I’m in a flaming temper about men.”
“Certain men in particular? Or the entire male sex?”
“Not far short.” She related the events culminating in the sordid episode in Don Trotton’s flat, leaving out the messier details.
“Tacky,” Richard agreed, “and I’m really sorry about your losing the house. But come on, Kate, where’s your sense of proportion? Any woman who’s as attractive as you are must have hit this kind of situation before ... a cocky guy making a heavy pass, and turning spiteful when you smack him down. I’m not making excuses, but it happens. What’s new?”
“What’s new is what followed. All day today I’ve been aware of sniggering behind my back. At lunchtime I pinned down Tim Boulter. I couldn’t make him tell me a lot, but enough to get the picture. Trotton’s been spreading it around that sex-starved widow Kate Maddox leapt at the invitation to visit his flat. That she just couldn’t wait to drop her knickers for him. And all conveyed with the sort of sly innuendo that I could never nail him for. If I dared try, I’d end up the loser second time around.”
“I’d better sort that bastard out for you,” said Richard, in an upsurge of anger.
“No, you keep out of it. That would only make the situation worse. This is my problem.”
“So how are you going to handle it?”
“I don’t know, not yet. But some way or other, you’d better believe it.”
Richard regarded her with warm admiration. “You’ll have me feeling sorry for Trotton in a minute. That guy’s going to live to regret ever tangling with Kate Maddox.”
When later they left the restaurant, it was a beautiful evening. Moonless, but bright with starlight. By mutual consent they strolled on beyond the car park and higher up the lane to a break in the trees. From there they could look over miles of open countryside, with clusters of lights that showed where the villages lay. A greater gathering of lights in the distance was Marlingford.
“Our territory,” Richard mused, standing close beside her. “Yours and mine. Lucky, aren’t we? Don’t let that Trotton business get you down, Kate. None of this ‘I will go sit and weep, till I can find occasion for revenge.’”
“Shakespeare?”
“Taming of the Shrew.”
“Trying to impress me with your erudition, eh?”
“I find it works like magic to have a suitable quote ready for the right occasion.”
Kate managed a flash recall. “Brush up your Shakespeare, and the women you will wow.”
“Cole Porter?”
“Give the man a prize.”
There was hardly a pause. “Kiss me, Kate.”
“Brilliant. I don’t know how you do it.”
“I didn’t say Kiss Me, Kate. I said, Kiss me, Kate.”
She still didn’t quite catch on until Richard turned her to face him. Then she went into his embrace with a soft sigh. It didn’t seem a moment too soon.
Chapter Eleven
A Women’s Institute coach outing to Windsor Castle had frustrated Kate’s intention to interview Mrs. Parkes on the Monday. Only too often, regrettably, an important next step in an investigation had to be postponed for some such trivial reason. A police car despatched to her home first thing on Tuesday found the lady in. She arrived at the Incident Room visibly flustered but excited by the importance of the occasion.
Joan Parkes was shortish, plumpish, greyish. She was the sort, Kate noted with satisfaction, to have gimlet eyes at the back of her head.
“I’m sorry to have to ask you to come here,” Kate began when they were both seated. “I want to talk to you about Dr. Trent. You used to work for him, I understand.”
“That’s right, I did. Poor man! You could’ve knocked me down with a feather when I heard about him being murdered. And that other gent too, Sir Noah Whatsit. What a world!”
“How long ago was it that you stopped working for Dr. Trent?”
Mrs. Parkes was immediately on the defensive. “It was only because I had to go and look after my grandchildren, no other reason. My Angie was expecting again and she had to go into hospital because of high blood pressure. So I had to tell all the people I did for that I wouldn’t be able to come for a bit, not till after the babe was born.”
Tactfully, Kate enquired of the grannie, “What was it, boy or girl?”
“Oh, a lovely little girl. Seven pounds three ounces. Ever so bonny, she is. Charlene Daphne, they’re calling her.”
“Congratulations, Mrs. Parkes. When exactly was it you went off to look after your grandchildren?”
“Well, let me think. It was just after the bank holiday.”
“End of May, beginning of June?”
“That’s about it. Since I came home a fortnight ago I’ve taken up all my other jobs again. Well, they were only too thankful to get me back after the rubbish they’d been filling in with. You’d never credit the stories they told me. But with Dr. Trent, I just kept mum about being back. My Angie said I was doing far too much at my age, and it was such a long way to that cottage of his on my bike. And so deathly quiet when I got there ... I’d never clap eyes on a living soul the whole morning. So, like I say, I kept mum. I didn’t want him begging me to go back to him, or I might have weakened.” She sniffed. “I heard he’d fixed up with one of them contract cleaning firms. I can just imagine how the job gets done ... a lick and a promise, that’s all. The sort of people they employ, they’ve got no heart in their work, have they?”
Kate smiled. “I suppose you didn’t see a lot of Dr. Trent while you were working for him? He’d have been away at the lab when you were at the cottage.”
“That’s another thing. Trust! Can you trust them other people, I wonder?”
Kate had to repeat the question.
“No, I never saw a lot of him. But you don’t have to see a man to get to know him, not when you clean for him.”
This one, Kate, is going to pay dividends.
“Dr. Trent seems to have lived a very quiet life,” she said. “He wasn’t the sort of man to make many friends, so it’s been difficult for me to form a true picture of him in my mind. Which, I’m sure you will appreciate, is most important in helping to solve a difficult case of murder. That’s why a chat with you could be so useful to me. I thought to myself, Mrs. Parkes probably knew Dr. Trent better than anyone ... the private side of his life, that is. Anything she can tell me will be accurate, I can rely on it. That’s what I thought.” God, will you listen to yourself, Kate Maddox!
Joan Parkes resembled a plump pigeon, the
way she preened herself. “Ah, well, you’ve certainly come to the right person. What is it you want to know?”
“I’m trying to make a complete list of the people he knew, apart from his work. He must have had one or two personal friends he saw occasionally.”
But, disappointingly, Joan Parkes shook her head. “If he did, it’s news to me. I’ve got loads of friends myself, but some folks ... A funny old world, ain’t it?”
“Did you take any phone calls for Dr. Trent while you were working at the cottage?”
“Only once in a blue moon. I mean, everyone would know that he’d be at work in the daytime. There were just one or two ... queries about things he’d ordered from some shop, that kind of thing.”
“How about letters? Personal letters?” ,
“His sister up north wrote to him sometimes. I’d see the letters from her. And a picture postcard now and then. I never read them, of course.”
Perish the thought!
“Did anyone ever call at the cottage while you were there?”
“Well, there was a regular delivery of groceries every Tuesday from the shop in Aston Pringle.” Mrs. Parkes screwed up her face in fierce concentration. “The telephone engineer came once to fix the phone. Dr. Trent told me to expect him.”
Kate opened a drawer in her desk and took out the Tom Jones tape Trent’s sister had brought to her.
“Do you recognize this, Mrs. Parkes?”
“It’s one of them music tape things, isn’t it?”
“That’s right. It was found at Dr. Trent’s cottage.”
“Oh, he had heaps and heaps of them. Very musical gent, he was.”
“But this one is quite different from all the others. It’s a Tom Jones album. Not at all the sort of thing Dr. Trent enjoyed. I wonder if you know how he came by it?”
“I wouldn’t mind betting his lady friend gave it to him.” There was a crafty look on her round face as she said this. Kate realized that Mrs. Parkes had been deliberately saving up this morsel, savouring the effect it would have when she brought it out. The amazed expression Kate adopted gave her full value for money.
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