Cold Coffin
Page 23
“Why did you administer an overdose of sleeping pills to your wife?”
“Is that what Paula said? She took the pills herself. Anyway, it was only four Mogadons altogether.”
“Enough to keep her from realizing you were deserting her. You plied her with gin first, so she was confused about the number of pills she swallowed.”
“If Paula overdosed, that was entirely her own doing. She must have taken some more pills after I left.”
“You plied Trent with drink, too, didn’t you? It was no doubt he who drank most of the whisky you took with you to his cottage on the evening of his death, while you kept a clear head. You got him thoroughly befuddled, then you persuaded him to walk with you to the pond in the nearby woods, saying you thought that would be a good permanent hiding place for Sir Noah’s body, provided it was well weighted down. Once there, you pushed him into the water and held him under with a tree branch until he drowned. Afterwards, you went back to his cottage, letting yourself in by the back door—which you had earlier surreptitiously unlocked for that purpose—and cleared away the signs of your presence there, before returning to London.”
“That’s ridiculous. I was in London the whole time this was supposed to be happening. You can’t prove I wasn’t.”
Kate abruptly took another direction. “What precisely was the business you had in Malta, Mr. Kimberley?”
“That’s my affair. It has nothing to do with all this.”
“Why did you book your ticket under a false name?”
“There’s no crime in that. My passport was in order.”
“You had no business in Malta, did you? In fact, it was sheer chance that Malta was your destination. Merely that you were able to get a reservation at short notice on a flight that was leaving for Malta last evening. Almost anywhere would have done you as well, so long as it was beyond our jurisdiction. Hasn’t it occurred to you to wonder how we managed to track you down so quickly?”
“Paula must have—”
“How could she possibly have known? You made sure she was lying in a drugged sleep before you put through that call to Heathrow. No, Mr. Kimberley, it was you who left a trail behind you. In your haste you overlooked a small facet of modern technology that could give you away. The last number you dialled from your home remained locked in the phone’s memory. I merely had to touch the redial button to discover who it was you’d spoken to. I got straight through to the British Airways desk at Heathrow. They were able to recall their conversation with a Mr. Kay earlier that evening. A minor slip-up, but in your case a vital one.” She paused, then added, “You shouldn’t have made an enemy of your wife, you know. It will be on her evidence that you’ll be convicted of murder.”
“She’s lying, the bitch.”
The interviews with Kimberley and his wife had brought Kate a long way to an understanding of what had happened. But not far enough to make a charge of murder stick. She still hadn’t one jot of firm evidence that Kimberley had been anywhere near Trent’s cottage that night. If only someone could be found who’d actually seen him or his car in the locality.
Images flashed through her mind of the events of that fateful evening. It was possible that close questioning of the Inchmere St. Mary residents might turn up someone who’d seen Kimberley’s car when he called at his cottage to make the phone call to Lady Kimberley. It was possible, too, that some late-night walker might have spotted a man who could be identified as Kimberley in the vicinity of the pond or of Trent’s cottage. But how to find such a witness? Someone with a dog, perhaps? Which brought her to think of George Jessop. Could he and Cheryl Miller have seen anything, when they’d set out with Jessop’s dog around midnight? Then suddenly her mind targeted on Duncan McEvoy, who’d been sitting in his car waiting for Jessop to go to bed before purloining some blocks of Cotswold stone.
That lane running past Croptech would be the route Kimberley must have taken as he headed back to London after drowning Trent in the pond and returning to the dead man’s cottage to remove all signs of his presence there. She recalled McEvoy’s statement. He’d been unable to identify the woman, he told her, because he’d been temporarily dazzled by a passing car’s headlights. A big car. How many cars travelled along that minor lane around midnight—on any night? How many big cars?
It was the moment, Kate decided, to go out on a limb. She flashed a glance at Boulter to warn him something unexpected was coming.
“It’s no use, Mr. Kimberley,” she said, displaying impatience. “I have a witness who saw you in this area on that Wednesday evening.”
“That ... that’s impossible.”
“After you killed Trent, you headed back to London. Do you remember, as you went past the Croptech premises, a car was parked on the verge without lights? The driver of that car saw you, Mr. Kimberley. He saw you!”
The man shot her an evil look. Boulter was frowning tensely. Kate held her breath.
“All right, all right,” Kimberley muttered at last. “But before I say another word I want my solicitor present.”
Chapter Sixteen
“In future, Kate, when you solve a case,” Richard grumbled, “kindly remember that the Gazette’s press day is Wednesday. By next week this will all be stale news.”
She laughed at him. “Don’t whinge, Gower.”
It was Saturday lunchtime, and they were enjoying a drink and a chicken salad at one of the garden tables at the Wagon and Horses in Chipping Bassett. Felix would have joined them, but she was taking pictures at a Pony Club gymkhana at Dodford.
“Your press conference on Thursday,” he went on, “was about as informative as a parliamentary answer. How about giving me the nitty-gritty, Kate?”
She tore off a scrap of bread and tossed it to a sparrow. “Strictly off the record?”
“Cross my honest old heart.”
She owed Richard something, after all, for several instances of help he’d given her in this case. She treated him to a mildly edited version of the sequence of events leading to the arrest of Aidan and Paula Kimberley.
When she’d come to the end, he said, “That was a neat dodge, using the redial button of their phone to get onto Kimberley’s trail. Clever stuff!”
“Tell Jolly Joliffe that. He took it in his stride as routine procedure.”
Richard smiled sympathetically. “I appreciate you, Kate, anyway. So, it’s all over?”
“You think? You’d never believe the paperwork.”
“How’s Lady Kimberley taking it?”
“So-so. It’s been a tough time for her.”
“What will happen at Croptech, d’you reckon?”
“I’ve no doubt that Lord Balmayne will advise her well. He’s a good friend to her. One thing, I hope that whatever happens to the firm, Cheryl Miller doesn’t get overlooked. She’d be more than capable of running the whole show. That is, if she wants to any more.”
“What about those two who were on the fiddle, young Roger Barlow and the secretary ... what’s her name?”
“Sandra English.”
“Will you be bringing charges?”
“I can’t be bothered. But they’ll be sweating, no doubt. Wondering.” That made Kate think of Don Trotton, and she laughed. “They aren’t the only ones sweating just now.”
“Uh?”
“Don Trotton—you remember? He fell right into my lap the other night.” She enlarged.
“Oho! Your chance for revenge. What are you doing about it?”
“Nothing. But Trotton can’t know that. He’ll sweat for days until it finally dawns on him that I haven’t spread the story around. And then, he’ll start sweating all over again wondering why.”
“Serve the bugger right. This is really turning out to be your week, Kate, because I’ve got some good news for you.”
“Good news?”
“I’ve found you somewhere to live. Somewhere very nice.”
“You’ve what? Tell me, quickly.”
“There’s a stable block in
the grounds of a big old house near Ampney-on-the-Water which the owner intends to convert into four residential units, and he’s got planning permission. It’s in a marvellous setting, and according to the architect’s drawings, each unit will be pretty damn good. They’re not too pricey, either, considering. And you can have first pick.”
“That’s incredible, Richard. Wonderful. How do I come to be so lucky?”
“The guy owes me some favours. Besides, I pointed out to him the security advantages of having a top brass police person living right on his doorstep.”
“Richard, you’re an absolute darling. Though how you could calmly sit there all this time and not tell me, I do not know.”
“I was waiting for the psychological moment.”
“When can I see the place?”
“There isn’t a lot to be seen, as yet. Still, if we drive over there you’ll be able to get a rough idea. And I’ve got photocopies of the plans in my car.”
“Wow!” She jumped up and buttoned the jacket of her white blazer. “Come on, Richard, let’s move.”
“As soon as we’ve finished our lunch.”
“For heaven’s sake, who cares about food now?”
“I do.” In leisurely protest, Richard set about making himself a sandwich, breaking open a length of French bread and stuffing it with the choicest remaining slivers of chicken from both their plates. Then he got up and walked limpingly over to where an impatient Kate stood waiting beside his Volvo. She looked good, tall and poised and confident, her short black hair riffled by the summer breeze.
He felt happier than he’d felt in years.
Copyright © 1990 by Erica Quest/Nancy Buckingham
Originally published by Doubleday/Crime Club [ISBN 0385411871]
Electronically published in 2014 by Belgrave House/Regency
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This is a work of fiction. All names in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental.