The inspector followed him with interest and looked round the palatial quarters, rather like a luxury living-room with a small bar on one side. “Is that what you think happened to Joanne de Billiere on the night she died?” he asked. “Did she have one of these fellows on board and they decided to put to sea for the fun of it when they were half-pissed?”
“I don’t know, do I?” The old boy paused with one hand resting on the bar. “I finish at six o’clock when the proper security firm come on. After that anything could happen.” He shook his head. “I reckon those guys are a waste of money. All they do is sit in the office and every hour one of them goes out and does the mister plod bit up and down the pontoons. They don’t know who anyone is and they don’t have any idea what’s going on.”
“So what do you think went on that day?”
Jimmy shrugged. “I don’t know for sure. She come down here after lunch. I saw her when I went round at about three o’clock, stretched out on her sun-bed in her bikini.”
“You’d remember that, would you?” Paulson couldn’t resist a grin.
“Yes, I would,” said the old boy, positively. “She was a stylish woman, our Joanne, even if she wasn’t no spring chicken, if you know what I mean. Anyway she was down below when I come back about five to five-thirty.” He grinned and nodded. “I remember that too.”
“Are you suggesting she had some bloke down there in the afternoon?”
“No.” Jimmy shook his head. “There were too many people about. She might have just gone down for a rest out of the sun, or something else.” He paused and lowered his voice. “But she might have been getting herself ready for later in the evening.”
The inspector took a breath and considered what he’d learned. “So, you think that what may have happened is - that she had a bloke come on board for a drink, and she did her trick of inviting him below. Then, they either had some sex and a few more drinks and decided to take the boat out for the hell of it, or else they decided to take the boat somewhere more private and have the drinks and sex bit when they got there. Is that right?”
“The second.” Jimmy’s view was decisive. “This is quite a big boat and you’ve got to be pretty careful how you handle it in the marina. If they’d done that with a few drinks inside them, they’d have been likely to hit someone else and then there’d have been complaints coming in.” He shook his head. “And I never heard nothing like that about the Billiere boat.”
“Do you remember seeing any likely candidates for the man on that evening?” enquired Paulson. “Were there any single men working on their boats that day?”
Tate thought carefully. “I don’t remember anyone special,” he said at last.
“Or,” the policeman’s accent was heavy, “were there any boats the next morning which appeared to have been left unattended at fairly short notice - things lying about on the deck which hadn’t been cleared up - that sort of thing.”
“I don’t remember noticing anything unusual,” said Jimmy. “But it could have been someone who just walked into the marina without going to a boat of their own. I told you, these guys on the gate don’t check anything what comes through.” He shook his head again. “But I don’t believe Joanne Billiere would take that boat out on her own, especially with night coming on. It’s just not like her.”
“What I don’t understand,” said Paulson, “is why a witness at the time says that he could only see the one person on board.”
“That’s easy,” said the old man. “Joanne may have been up on the bridge, but this boat has dual controls for when the weather isn’t so pleasant. The man could have been in the control cabin here.” He led the way through an area where stairways went up and down from the main deck and opened a door into a small room at the front of the superstructure with windows on three sides. Paulson saw the steering wheel and the twin throttle levers for the engines.
“How far away was this chap who saw her taking the boat out?” asked Jimmy.
“Walking along the Princess Pier.”
“Well, you can see the windows are darkened glass,” he pointed out. “With the low angle of the evening sun, anyone steering the boat from here would have been virtually invisible.”
“And once they were out of the harbour, he could have gone up on the bridge and joined her,” Paulson mused.
“Or she might have come down here to join him.”
The inspector nodded. “It’s an interesting theory, Jimmy. The question is - who was this man? You say you don’t remember anyone who was down here that day?”
“The only person I can remember seeing was Mr Hillman, who used to be the mayor,” said Jimmy. “But I’m sure he left an hour or so before I did.”
“Nevertheless I’ll remember that,” Paulson grunted, remembering the possible link with the suicide of his wife. “Well, that’s been helpful, Jimmy. I may want to come back to test a few theories with you later.”
He left the old boy to lock up and made his way back to the car to check he’d got answers to everything in the computer questionnaire, which was mercifully short about Jimmy Tate.
* * * * * * * *
At the Burrows’ cottage, DCI Faraday led the way round to the back door and tapped on the glass. Although she could see Emily Burrows at the sink, Charlotte had to knock twice more quite loudly before she could get her attention. It was obvious that the old lady wouldn’t be able to hear any traffic passing the front of the house. She introduced Prendergast to Mrs Burrows as the woman let them in and put on the kettle.
Then she went to the door leading into the rest of the cottage. “Stanley,” she called out, “they’m ‘ere to collect our list.”
There came a sound of movement from inside and a minute later the old boy arrived brandishing several sheets of paper. “‘Ere you is then, my dear. ‘Ere’s a list of everyone we can think of goin’ back over several year.”
Charlotte took the sheets of paper, sat down at the kitchen table and surveyed them. They were written in a small, shaky hand and must have contained well over two hundred names. Some were set down as ‘couple in black car - can’t remember name - stayed about half an hour’. Where names had been remembered there was often no explanation. She ran her eye down the list. Hardly any of the names meant anything to her. She thought the whole experiment would probably prove to be quite useless.
Emily Burrows was handing out cups of tea. One was placed by Charlotte’s elbow. She picked it up and drank. Over the rim of her cup she caught the name ‘Mr and Mrs Hillman’. She put her cup down and pointed at the names. “Is this Mr Lionel Hillman who owns the garages?”
Stan came forward and peered at the paper short-sightedly. “Mr and Mrs ‘Illman,” he quavered. “That’s right, ‘e owns the garages.”
“Did they come often?” asked Charlotte.
He nodded ruminatively. “Quite often. Well, she used to come often. ‘Course, she be dead now so ‘er don’t come no more. Anyway,” he tailed off, “there bain’t no-one ‘ere for ‘er to see if she did come now.”
Charlotte looked at him. “What did you think of Mrs Hillman? How did she seem to you?”
“Well now.” He stood and looked at the floor, seemingly stumped for a reply. “She were a good looker. There bain’t no doubt about that. I’d say one of the best lookers around for a long way.” And he lapsed into thoughtful silence.
“Did you ever speak to her?”
He looked up. “‘Course I did - sometimes when she caught I pruning the roses or summat like that.”
“So she was often here, was she?” asked Charlotte. “Did she like to go round the garden?”
“Oh, yes,” he agreed. “Mr Adams was very proud of his roses. ‘E liked to show ‘em off to people. And we had the finest show in Torquay some year, though I says it meself.”
“He sometimes showed Mrs Hillman round the roses, did he?” Charlotte didn’t know why she was labouring this point - perhaps because it was the only obvious link between the two deaths.
/> “Oh yes.” Stan Burrows nodded again. “He used to show all sorts of people round his roses. Finest rose garden in Torquay at the time. Stands to reason that he’d show ‘em off, don’t it?”
“Where would Mr Hillman and Mrs Adams be while he was showing Mrs Hillman the roses.”
The old boy peered at her with a baffled expression on his face. “Like as not they’d be there as well,” he said. “Lots of people looked at the roses. I told ‘e, they was the finest roses in Torquay. ‘Course they’ve all gone now.”
Charlotte gave up and went back to the list. She decided to give it to Stafford Paulson to see if any of the names meant anything to him. She skimmed it through again. She could still find nothing of interest. Then - only about three entries from the bottom, she came across another line which intrigued her - ‘husband of maid what committed suicide’. That was all.
“Another suicide?” she said out loud and pointed at the entry. “Here Stan - what is this?”
The old man came and peered at the place indicated. “Husband of maid what committed suicide,” he read and looked up at his wife. “The missus told me to put that down. Come and look at this, Em.”
Mrs Burrows came and looked at the entry. “That’s right,” she said. “He was her husband. He came several times just after her death. I think he was making a fuss because Mr Adams had given her the sack for stealing something.”
“Is that why she committed suicide?”
She shook her head. “I don’t think so. I think she was in some other sort of trouble. But the man - he came here several times at about the time she done it.”
“When was that?”
“Oh I don’t know.” She looked at her husband. “It must ‘ave been several years ago.”
“I reckon it were ten year ago,” he piped.
“Don’t be daft, Stan,” she remonstrated. “It weren’t nearly as long as that.”
“Ten year if it were a day,” he repeated.
Charlotte interrupted an argument she imagined might go on for hours. “And you can’t remember his name?” she asked.
“No,” said Stan.
“I never knew ‘is name,” said Emily. “I can remember ‘er first name, but not ‘er second name.”
“And what was her first name?” asked Charlotte.
“Sandra,” said the old woman. “She were Mrs Adams personal maid and she were only ‘ere a few months. So I don’t remember her second name. But ‘er first name was Sandra.”
That was all the information Charlotte could get out of them. She drove back to the station in the early evening light. After scanning the list on to the computer she handed it over to DI Paulson to see what he could make of it.
- 6.Friday -
Susannah was getting ready on Friday morning when the phone rang. It was Stephen.
“Darling, I’m sorry but I shan’t be able to get home this weekend. I’ve got to go to Munich to tie up some deal. Do you mind?”
“No, that’s all right” she said, her heart bounding. “I quite understand. Business must come first.”
“I’m dreadfully sorry, but this thing came up at the last minute. You’re not too annoyed, are you?” Was she suddenly becoming suspicious or were his excuses a little too effusive? “You see, I’ve already promised to visit George and Stephanie the following weekend. So that means I won’t have been home for nearly four weeks.”
She put on her light, bantering tone. “That’s all right, darling. I’ll make sure I look at your photo every night so that I won’t forget what you look like.”
“I feel dreadful,” he said. “Would you like to fly over and join me in Munich? I’ll be out during the day, but we could see each other in the evenings.”
“Don’t be silly, Stephen,” she laughed. “That would cause such a lot of trouble. In any case, I wasn’t very impressed by Munich last time I was there. You go and have your business weekend and ring me when you get back to tell me how it all went.”
“Of course I will,” he promised. “Are you all right?”
“Yes - I’m having a very relaxing time. The weather’s been beautiful recently and you know how I like to soak up the sun.” She was damned if she was going to tell him what she had been doing for the last few days.
“Well, make sure you don’t over-do it, darling,” he said. “I don’t want you suffering from sun-stroke or anything.”
“Stephen! Don’t be silly.”
“All right. Take care of yourself, darling. Goodbye.”
“And you do the same. Bye.”
He rang off.
Susannah crossed back to her dressing table and sat down again in front of the mirror. Her heart was heaving with excitement. She and Richard had enjoyed a lovely evening together last night. They were planning to spend today exploring some more. But they had known Friday would be their last day together. She had expected not to see him over the weekend. And some time early next week he would be returning to London. It was quite possible that they would never see each other again.
However, now they could meet over the weekend. More - she hardly dared admit what she was thinking - for two days there would be nobody except herself in the house, for Mrs Harding only came in to clean during the week. What might happen this weekend? She felt a huge, bursting buzz of excitement - as intense as she used to get when she realised she had landed an important new part.
She hummed to herself as she shampooed and blow-dried her hair. She chose to put on her most luxurious under-clothes. She decided to wear the little yellow sun-dress with nothing but two thin straps to hold it up. That would make Richard take notice of her. She knew he found her figure attractive, even though she was several years older than him. When they had kissed in the car park last night, before her lonely drive home, he had cupped his hand under her left breast for a second, which had produced an aching sensation in the pit of her stomach, like nothing she had felt since she was young.
She looked at her appearance critically in the mirror. She had taken care of her body over the last ten years. There had been little else for her to do. She had fed correctly and modestly. Her consumption of alcohol had been strictly controlled and she had given up smoking. She knew she was in good condition for a woman of fifty-two. Her figure was still slim and shapely - with just a little bit of help from her expensive under-clothes. Her skin was smooth and clear and luminous. Her hair was soft and full and shiny.
She snorted. Stephen took all this for granted. He was hardly ever here to see it and, when he did condescend to come, he didn’t bother to compliment her any more. Richard, on the other hand, never ceased to say nice things to her. He obviously found her attractive and pretty and - she might as well admit it - plain sexy. She could tell that, by the way he looked at her and by the admiring comments he made. When she was with him she felt as though she was the centre of his world. Why shouldn’t she encourage him just a little?
She had never yet been unfaithful to Stephen, but did she owe fidelity to a man who didn’t bother to come and see her for the best part of a month? In any case, as Moira had suggested, he was probably carrying on with some pneumatic little secretary in the office. That was the most likely explanation of what he was really doing this weekend. She wished now that she had asked him the name of his hotel. A well-timed phone call might have caught him out. An ageing man like Stephen would probably be anxious to prove himself with some bouncy young thing. It would be easy for him, with his wealth and power and position, to find himself an impressionable youngster who would make him believe he was still a great lover. And she had to admit that he was still very handsome and suave in a Nordic kind of way.
She shook her head. Even if it wasn’t another woman, he was still being unfaithful to her in another way. Obviously he was getting more pleasure from his work and his wheeler-dealing and his golf and meeting with his old friends, than he did from spending the weekend quietly with her. Things had changed from the early days, when he used to rush back every Friday afternoon
and delay his departure until the early hours of Monday morning, so as to be with her as much as possible. She decided that Stephen was now taking her far too much for granted. He really didn’t deserve her.
She reached out and selected her most expensive daytime scent - light and flowery and enticing. She sprayed it lightly behind her ears, then pulled forward the front of her dress and deposited a substantial amount down her cleavage. She stood up and crossed to the wardrobe where she kept her shoes. She selected a pair of light sandals with unnecessarily high heels. From the back of the door she took a light, cinnamon-coloured, chiffon scarf which she knotted round her neck, leaving the ends to trail over her shoulder where they wouldn’t impede the view of the top of her breasts.
Then she straightened up, nodded to herself in the mirror and made for the front door on her way to the car. Watch out Mr Richard Harris!
* * * * * * * *
DCI Faraday tossed the questionnaire onto Greg Mallinson’s desk. “What on earth is this?” she asked. There was contempt in her voice.
“It’s the answers to the questions you asked me to get.” His impudent grin was more like a sneer.
“There were twelve questions on the list,” she accused. “You’ve answered seven with ‘Can’t remember’, two with ‘Don’t know’ and only three have any sort of answer at all. Did you actually go to meet the man?”
“Of course I did,” Mallinson protested half-heartedly. “But Mariella Prince’s death occurred four years ago. You can’t expect old Farmer to remember much after all this time.”
Charlotte snorted. “That’s rubbish. You’ve just wasted everyone’s time, including your own. I could have got more information than this from a five-minute phone call.”
Greg Mallinson decided to stand up for himself. “Well, perhaps you should have done that, instead of dragging me off other important work to chase up some four-year-old rubbish just to satisfy a computer. Then I could have concentrated on doing something useful.”
Faraday 01 The Gigabyte Detective Page 14