Hennessey turned to the youth. “Do you know?"
"No...” He glanced at the woman and shook his head vigorously. He looked nervous. He had something to hide.
"Eight years ago, you were how old, son?"
"Eleven."
"Got your life ahead of you, haven't you? Pity to throw it away on a murder charge."
"I didn't murder him."
"I'm sure you didn't, but if you had anything to do with the remains, the body, and placing it on the towpath, you can be charged with conspiracy to murder. Even eight years after the event, when at the time you were in short trousers learning algebra."
"And it could carry a life sentence,” Yellich added.
The youth paled.
"Got a name, lad?"
"Kevin."
"Kevin what?"
"O'Reilly."
"All right Kevin, you're coming with us.” Hennessey saw that there'd be no confession from Mrs. Watch. After eight years, forensic evidence would be difficult to prove.
"Is he under arrest?” Mrs. Watch flushed with anger.
"No, he's coming of his own volition, aren't you, Kevin?"
* * * *
Kevin O'Reilly pulled nervously on the cigarette.
"Didn't think we'd get much out of you with madam the queen there.” Hennessey smiled as he handed O'Reilly a white plastic beaker full of piping-hot coffee. “Believe me, you've got more to fear from her than you do from us. We, Sergeant Yellich here and me, we've been doing this for a long time. You've got guilt written all over your face, you're shaking like a leaf. You're in over your head, aren't you?"
Kevin O'Reilly nodded.
"Known her long?"
"About six months. We met at the gym."
"The gym?"
"She works out, desperate to keep her figure. She invited me home. It went from there. She made all the running ... I was ... I mean, I'd never..."
"All right, Kevin."
"Do I need a lawyer?"
"If you want one. But this is still off the record."
"Did you mean what you said about a life sentence?” O'Reilly looked at Yellich.
"Oh, yes. Technically it's possible. Unlikely, but possible. But you'll collect a good seven or eight years, minimum."
"I couldn't handle prison."
"I know you can't, Kevin. Big strong lad, but you're a little boy inside. I can see that."
"There's only one way you can avoid the gaol, Kevin."
"There is, isn't there?” He looked round the interview room, dark, spartan. “I moved the body, I left it where it was found."
"Alone?"
"She drove the car. I told her I'd put it in the canal and it had sunk. She told me to do that, but I panicked. Just dropped it on the canal side."
"Where was the body kept?"
"In the cellar. There's a little alcove. She put the body in there, and then bricked it up. She has to sell the house, you see. She sold his business, lived off the proceeds for six years—holidays, clothes, jewellery. Mainly jewellery. You'll need a van to shift all her jewellery, she's got a room put aside just for the jewels. But the money's dried up so she's got to sell to raise money to live, move to a smaller house. ‘Trading down,’ she said. Anyway, couldn't sell the house with a body in the cellar. Now I think she picked me up in the gym for that job and that job alone. But she could have done it herself, there was no weight in him at all."
"Did she tell you she had killed him?"
"Not in so many words, but it all points that way."
"Does, doesn't it?"
"I've helped myself?"
"Hugely. You may even escape prosecution for this information.” Hennessey smiled reassuringly. “All right, let's get this down in the form of a statement, then we'll get back and have a chat with Mrs. Watch."
(c) 2007 by Peter Turnbull
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Fiction: ROOM FOR IMPROVEMENT by Marilyn Todd
British writer Marilyn Todd, the author of several historical series, currently resides in Cognac, France. She returns to 1950s Britain for this tale. As she explains, “Back in the ‘fifties, when divorce was almost impossible in Britain, the only sure way to sever a marriage was to prove adultery. As a result, unscrupulous solicitors employed even more unscrupulous detective agencies to fake the evidence. This is my take on that lack of scruples.
I looked at the couple hovering in the doorway, him in Savile Row, her all blue Chanel and pearls, and thought: so rich, so wholesome. So unhappy.
"Mr. and Mrs. Cuthbertson,” he said by way of introduction, and there were enough plums in his mouth that I could have made jam, were I that way inclined. “We...” he cast a sideways glance at his wife, who had found a sudden need to check that the buttons on her jacket were in line. “We have an appointment with Mr. Hepburn."
"Please come in."
I made a point of glancing at the diary on my desk, then smiling at the clock on the wall in a way that commended their promptness. They were on the dot. And had no idea how the rough end of the law worked.
"I'm afraid Mr. Hepburn's been summoned to an urgent court appearance,” I lied, shaking Mrs. Cuthbertson's limp white calfskin glove. “But he briefed me on your situation before he left, and asked me to run through the details with you."
This is the point where I bring out my most reassuring smile, proof that all those lengthy visits to the dentist do pay off.
"I'm his daughter, Lois.” Ouch. Mr. Cuthbertson's handshake wasn't only solid, though. I detected a distinct Freemason squeeze. “I guarantee you the same level of confidence and discretion that my father would give you."
They glanced at each other, still a little uneasy. But they hadn't travelled all this way just to take the next train home.
"That's perfectly all right,” Mrs. Cuthbertson said, and whatever her other faults, she was a terrible liar.
"Yes, indeed.” Her husband, now, he scored a little higher, but only a fraction, I'm afraid. “Y'see, Miss Hepburn, we would like this ... business organized as quickly as possible."
And that indeed was the truth.
"Absolutely.” I ushered the pair into my fictitious father's office before taking a seat behind my fictitious father's desk. After all, the year might be 1959 and Brighton might be Britain's most sophisticated town outside of London, but the world still wasn't ready for single female private investigators. To be honest, I'm not sure I was, either.
"My solicitor informs me that you can help speed up our divorce,” Mrs. Cuthbertson said, in a manner that made it sound as though Stratton, Hall, and Stratton might yet be playing a practical joke.
"I can.” This time I didn't smile, but steepled my fingers. “Though you need to understand what's involved."
Mr. Cuthbertson was the shuffling-in-his-chair kind. His wife was the avoid-direct-eye-contact type. I really did feel for them both.
"On the contrary, Mr. Stratton was specific,” she said, toying with the clasp on her matching Chanel handbag. “Indeed, he went to some pains to explain how one of the very few grounds for a rapid divorce is adultery, and that providing proof can be given that one party has been indiscreet...” Her voice trailed off, and I noticed two bright red patches had sprung up to mar her immaculately rouged cheeks.
"Then there is a certain acceleration in the severance of the marriage that cuts years off the waiting time, yes,” I finished for her. “But this isn't Reno, Mrs. Cuthbertson.” Someone needed to point this out, and trust me, it was never going to be some posh, pinstriped solicitor. “One of you—” (usually the man, gentlemanly conduct and all that) “—needs to be photographed in what the courts like to describe as a compromising position."
"But you do the ... uh ... groundwork?” her husband asked.
"If you mean by booking a hotel room and hiring a co-respondent, then yes, Mr. Cuthbertson. This agency takes care of that."
As succinctly as possible, I ran through the procedure. The time for details was later, but this young couple needed to kn
ow here and now that evidence of not just a one-night stand but a longstanding, ongoing affair needed to be established. In practice, this was simply a matter of the man changing his tie for each of the photographs. The girls carried a change of clothing as a matter of course. I'd make lunch appointments every half-hour at different restaurants, dinner appointments in the evening, so there'd be wadges of photographs to lay before the court. The lovebirds holding hands between courses. The naughty couple toasting each other, whispering sweet nothings across the salt cellar, swanning in and out of hotels, that sort of thing.
"I will provide a back-dated contract that shows Mrs. Cuthbertson approached this agency three months ago, asking us to investigate her husband's infidelity,” I said, “but all this proves is that her husband has been meeting another woman over a period of time."
To grant her a divorce, the courts need meat on their bones.
"At a prearranged time, one of our agents—” I truly hoped I'd made it sound as though there was more than one of me—"goes to the hotel room, and because the courts require the corroboration of an independent witness, persuades the housekeeper to unlock the door.” I paused. “Then we snap the client in as compromising a position as they can muster."
The men were uniformly reserved, but the girls had no such qualms. At the required moment, they threw caution and their brassiéres to the wind. No wonder the husbands looked so startled in the photos.
"Jolly good.” Mr. Cuthbertson was relieved that his input to the arrangements would be minimal.
Mrs. Cuthbertson didn't even try to hide her joy at being left out of it completely. “That is excellent, Miss Hepburn,” she gushed, and I swear that little feather in her hat perked up. “Really excellent."
I wasn't convinced excellent was the word.
"Are you quite sure this is what you want?” This time I spoke to Mr. Cuthbertson directly. “There's no going back,” I told him. “You'll be publicly branded an adulterer, your name will be blazoned across the newspapers—"
"Miss Hepburn,” his wife interrupted gently, “my husband and I married in haste, we have already repented. We have no desire to add to the leisure."
I wondered whether they always did their arguing in such civilised terms, or whether they'd simply passed beyond that stage.
"The thing is, Miss Hepburn, both Margaret and I have met someone else,” Mr. Cuthbertson said. “We just want this marriage ended as quickly as possible, so we are free to marry again."
It all seemed so gracious and polite that I imagined the four of them round the Cuthbertson's elegant dining table, discussing it over a bottle of Margaux and a nice fillet steak. I thought it was about time someone added the mustard. “You are aware of the costs involved?"
"My family's in tractors and my husband is in baby foods,” Mrs. Cuthbertson said, carelessly rubbing her diamonds. “Money is no object, Miss Hepburn."
"Then you're also aware of why this fast-track divorce ploy is so expensive?” I leaned across the desk and looked her husband squarely in the eye. “If anything goes wrong, it's not just you,” I told him. “We could both end up in jail."
They glanced at each other, gulped, then nodded. Of the two, the wife's nod was the least grim, I decided.
But then she wasn't the one looking at porridge.
I want to make it very clear that what I do has no connection whatsoever with prostitution. Quite the opposite, in fact, because the girls I hire are usually married themselves and lead otherwise normal, respectable lives. It's just that, like me, they need the money —and for this kind of money, people take risks. Wouldn't you?
And it's because there's so much at stake, fixing up fake adultery cases, that I (a) charge exorbitant fees and (b) plan to the very last detail—then go over it time and again. That way, should anything go belly up, at least I have the satisfaction of having some money behind me to take care of Susan, plus I can wile away my stretch in the sure and certain knowledge that I did the best I could, which is all anyone can ask. Even crooked female private eyes.
So my confidence was pretty high as I took the elevator to the Belle Vue's second floor. Of course, that had as much to do with the hired mink as my meticulous forward planning, because even though I'd never earn enough to buy one for myself, you really do feel a million dollars wrapped inside real fur. And a girl certainly needs the right clothes in a hotel like the Belle Vue. For one thing, it's the best hotel by a mile, and that's where several of my competitors tripped up. They'd tried to cut costs, and realized too late that judges, especially divorce-court judges, aren't lemons. No man who has his shirts handmade in Jermyn Street books into a cheap hotel with an even cheaper floozy. So that's the first rule. Horses for courses, and since you only get the one chance in a place like the Belle Vue, you need to convince the housekeeper with a single glance that you're a bona fide guest who's foolishly left her key behind.
"Here we are, madam. Two-two-three."
The housekeeper made to knock, but I pointed to the “Do Not Disturb” sign hanging dutifully on the doorknob, and you'd be surprised how far a five-pound note still goes in the middle of an afternoon in 1959. While she jiggled the master key in the lock, I whipped my camera out of a vanity case designed for rather more feminine and undoubtedly more trivial activities, then checked the corridor for the billionth time. Still deserted, but on these carpets, you wouldn't hear a herd of wildebeest charging down on you. The lift whirred gently in the background.
"Say cheese,” I breezed, as the housekeeper flung open the door.
"Jeez,” the housekeeper said.
So used to all this, I'd taken the photo before I even realised. It was a man on the bed, all right, but he wasn't undressed and there was no sign of Mavis or her hired fox fur. (For the same reasons, I can't have Mavis wandering round the Belle Vue without looking the part, either). But to be honest, I wasn't surprised she'd done a bunk. His head lay at a horribly unnatural angle.
My first thought was for Mrs. Cuthbertson.
My second was to get the hell out of there.
"This situation needs to be handled with the utmost discretion,” I told the housekeeper, backing carefully out of the room. “You fetch the manager. I'll wait here, to make sure no one goes in."
The trouble was, I couldn't hear myself speak, there was this terrible din in the background. Not what one expects from the Belle Vue, I thought idly. What on earth was the place coming to? Then I turned round.
So much for keeping it quiet, I realized, and so much for slipping away.
That din was the housekeeper's scream.
* * * *
With no quick or easy way out, it was now a case of damage control. At the first screech, the lift boy, two chambermaids, some straight-backed, po-faced security manager, and a fat room-service waiter appeared out of nowhere, while there I was, camera in hand, pretending to be Mrs. Two-two-three. My gut instinct said play up the distraught widow thing, who's to say what grief will do, why shouldn't the poor wife run off, the girl's in shock? But it only goes to show. In the past, on the very few occasions I'd ever ordered room service, the waiters proved aloof and snooty specimens. Trust me to pick the breed's only bleeding heart. And then there was the Belle Vue's director.
"Drink this,” he insisted, pushing a cognac into my hand, having personally escorted me down to his office.
"How kind,” I sniffed, thinking, good, I can sneak away now, but compassion, it seems, has no bounds at plush hotels. He left a desk clerk as a deposit, and you wouldn't believe how fast the police can move, either. When they try.
So there I was, surrounded on all sides by red velvet and gilt while the piano in the foyer tinkled Gershwin, computing a multitude of likely stories. I pictured Mrs. Cuthbertson, fiddling with her handbag, fiddling with her pearls, and realized that I couldn't maintain the pretence of being her. Her marriage might be failing, but her husband had been willing to put his upper-crust reputation on the line for her, and in any case, a murder investigation would quickl
y reveal that I wasn't the genuine article. No, I'd have to be someone else who'd gone out without her damn room key. I warmed the cognac in my hand and sipped. Ultra smooth, but what else would one expect of the Belle Vue. And the more I thought about it, the better this scenario played out. If I was a woman who was stupid enough to forget her room key, I was certainly stupid enough to get the numbers muddled up. I finished off the brandy and pasted on my coy-but-nonetheless-ravishing smile for the benefit of the desk clerk. After all, who better to probe about the current guest list?
Within ten minutes, I was Mrs. Henry Martin, newlywed bride, because if honeymoons don't make a girl jittery, what the hell does? Not the sex. The fact that she's committing to a lifetime with someone, bearing his children, washing his socks. That would scare the pants off me, I can tell you. So. Providing the police didn't interrogate me in the presence of the desk clerk (300-1), there was no way of being caught out on my story, especially since the Martins had gone sightseeing in Eastbourne and would not be back before supper (7:30 onwards, dinner jackets only).Yes, indeed. Between the mink and the cognac, my confidence was restored and while the desk clerk answered the director's phone, I whipped the film from my camera and stuffed it behind my suspender.
"Inspector Sullivan is on his way down to see you,” he announced, but even before he'd finished, the door had opened and the entire gap was filled by a man with a mop of unruly dark hair and a face that looked like it had come second in a fight with a brick wall.
I stood up, though if I wasn't to be at a height disadvantage, I'd really need to stand on a chair. Still, I was ready, and I ran through the key points in my head. Mrs. Martin. Just married. Nervous. Excited. Definitely light-headed. Then—
"Don't I know you?” Inspector Sullivan asked, and his voice was rough from too many cigarettes, too little sleep. “Mrs. Hepburn, right?” I hate conscientious policemen.
"Miss."
"You run Hepburn Investigations?"
No point in stalling. I brought out my card. “Clients with confidence,” I said with none.
"Hm.” He chewed his lip, rubbed his jaw, ran his hand through his hair. And all the time his eyes were fixed on my camera.
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