With that, Imogen made her way back downstairs to where the police were waiting in the drawing room.
‘Laura will be a few minutes, so can I get anybody a drink?’
‘Actually, Mrs Kennedy, we’d like to take this opportunity to ask you a few questions, if you don’t mind?’
Imogen felt a slight tremor in her stomach, and wondered if everybody felt like this when interviewed by the police. She indicated that the policemen should take a seat on the sofa, and sat herself in what she hoped appeared to be a relaxed pose in a wingback chair next to the fireplace, with her feet tucked under her.
‘I’ll do whatever I can, Chief Inspector, although I’m not sure there’s much I can help you with.’ Tom smiled at her, and she couldn’t help thinking again what an attractive man he was. Not her sort, though; she only had one sort, and he was a stroppy, difficult and principled idiot off in the wilds of Africa.
‘We don’t know much about you, Mrs Kennedy. All we know is that you were married to Lady Fletcher’s brother and you weren’t given a particularly warm welcome when you arrived. Can you explain why that was, please?’
Imogen was relieved that this was such an easy question to answer with honesty.
‘When Laura’s brother and I divorced, it was felt better that I didn’t see Laura again.’
Now the young woman police officer, whose name if she remembered correctly was Becky, decided to intervene.
‘I was chatting a little to Lady Fletcher this morning, and she mentioned in passing that she’d known you since you were both children. Was your divorce so acrimonious that you couldn’t stay in touch with your friend?’
Imogen smiled. ‘I suspect you’re too young to have been divorced, aren’t you? Well, for the record it is very difficult for anybody - family or friends - to stay in touch with both parties. Unless it’s entirely amicable, people feel an obligation to take sides and it’s human nature for family to side with family. Somebody is always, rightly or wrongly, perceived as the bad guy, and in this case it was me.’ Imogen noticed a wry smile on Tom’s face, which she thought was both interesting and revealing.
‘And what about your relationship with Sir Hugo, Mrs Kennedy. Did he think it appropriate for you to break off communication with his wife?’ Imogen nearly laughed out loud.
‘I think he thought it was for the best, yes.’
‘What did you make of Sir Hugo? Did you like him?’
‘I didn’t really know him very well. I met him for the first time at their wedding. That was the first time that any of us met him, in fact. I probably saw him another couple of times, and then Will and I separated.’
She saw that Tom Douglas was watching her very carefully. He was clearly a smart one, and she thought he would know if she lied to him.
‘You didn’t answer my question, Mrs Kennedy. Did you like him?’
In an attempt to disarm him, Imogen beamed at him.
‘Please call me Imogen. I know Laura has asked you to dispense with the formalities. And with regard to Hugo, I wasn’t desperately keen, if I’m honest.’
‘Can you tell me why not?’
Imogen paused to give this what she thought would be the right level of consideration.
‘I didn’t think he was much fun. He was quite serious, and he seemed to want Laura to himself. She was very popular and full of life, and I felt that potentially he would stifle her.’
‘And did he?’
‘Difficult for me to say, really. As I’ve said, it wasn’t long after that before Will and I split up, so I never came here again.’
‘Did you really lose touch completely, Mrs Kennedy? I find it hard to believe that you would rush to the side of somebody you hadn’t seen for several years just because you heard their husband had died. We didn’t even know it was murder at that point. So why did you come exactly?’
Imogen took a deep breath, not missing the formal mode of address that he had used. This wasn’t going as well as she’d hoped.
‘I was at the airport when I heard. I was en route back to Canada, and I was watching the news in the British Airways Executive Lounge at Heathrow airport. It came up as ‘breaking news’. Heathrow is pretty close to here, so I raced out and grabbed a cab. Paid the driver extra to get me here as fast as possible. An impulsive decision, but I’d missed Laura so much over the years and I thought I could help her.’
‘You say you were en route to Canada. From where? Can you please tell me exactly where you were on Saturday morning?’
Imogen kept her tone light.
‘Yes. I’d been in Cannes at an exhibition. I work for an animation company in Canada, and was in France promoting our services. It was an important event for us.’
‘I’ve been to Cannes, actually,’ Tom said. ‘It’s quite a place. I presume the exhibition was at the Palais des Festivals. Which hotel did you stay at?’
Imogen knew he wasn’t asking out of idle curiosity.
‘I stayed at the Majestic. A lot of people go for the Martinique, but it gets a bit noisy for me and I prefer a good night’s sleep. The Majestic’s an excellent hotel - not quite so overbearingly smart as the Carlton - and it’s very close to the Palais. I left Cannes around mid-morning on Friday, and drove to Paris. I flew into Heathrow on Saturday afternoon.’
Imogen was conscious that she was probably giving far more information than was strictly necessary.
‘Where were you on Friday night?’ Becky asked.
‘I’d hired a car in Cannes, so I meandered up through France and stayed at a little auberge just south of Paris - somewhere between Bourges and Orléans, I think.’
‘Do you have the name of this auberge?’
‘Sorry, it was a spur of the moment thing and completely unplanned.’
‘No receipt?’ Becky asked.
‘No. I’m really not sure why you want all these details, but I paid in full on arrival - in cash. I wanted to get rid of my euros. I guess I left the bill in my room.’
‘Won’t you want to claim it on expenses?’
It didn’t look as if Becky was about to give up on this one, and Imogen tried hard to disguise her irritation.
‘No. It was my choice to have an extra night in France. If you must know, Will and I went to that part of France years ago so I used the opportunity to just drive around and reminisce a bit.’
Imogen felt a strong sense of relief as the drawing room door opened.
‘Ah look, here’s Laura. Did you want to ask me anything else?’
Tom smiled at her in a very pleasant way that somehow still managed to make her feel vulnerable.
‘No thank you, but that was very helpful. Becky, is there anything else you want to ask?’
‘Just one thing. What time did you deliver the car back to the hire company?’
‘It was early. I’d gone to bed as soon as I’d arrived at the auberge - a bit tired after the long drive, I think - so I woke up at the crack of dawn. I’d already paid, so I decided to set off and it only took me a couple of hours to drive into Paris. When I got there I just put the documents and the keys through a special letterbox, you know the sort of thing. It was a budget hire company, and they didn’t have a desk manned at all hours. I can give you the name of the hire company, if it would help?’
‘That would be useful. Thank you.’
Imogen let her breath out slowly. Hoping that would be the end of it, she turned gratefully towards Laura, who was looking so much better. She’d managed to get out of those awful middle aged clothes and found an old pair of jeans and quite a passable dark blue jumper. They were all slightly on the large size, but she’d obviously only had time to blitz her hair with the dryer so it was fuller round her face, and she hadn’t tied it back. Some of the pallor had gone from her cheeks too, and she looked like a different person. Imogen could also see that this fact hadn’t gone unnoticed by the detective chief inspector.
‘I’m sorry I kept you waiting. But perhaps you can tell me why you were interrogatin
g Imogen?’ Laura sounded almost belligerent.
Tom smiled. ‘It’s just routine, Laura. Everybody we meet who is of the right age and background and had some relationship or other with Hugo will have to be questioned.’
‘Imogen had no relationship at all with Hugo, as she has no doubt told you. They haven’t spoken to each other or seen each other for about ten years.’
Imogen thought she should calm things down a little.
‘It’s okay, Laura. I was just telling them about the exhibition and my drive through France. I don’t mind. And they know I hadn’t seen Hugo. Let me go and make everybody a cup of tea while they have a chat with you.’
*
Tom watched as the door closed behind Imogen. Interesting, he thought. She was largely telling the truth, but there were a couple of times when he detected a lie. Her eyes moved in a different direction - always a give away. She obviously had been in Cannes, which was easy to check, and she would also know that they could verify her story about the flight from Paris. So why slip in a couple of small and surely inconsequential lies? He was sure that the car hire company would prove a dead end too, but he wanted to unsettle her as much as possible to see what she would give away.
He looked at Laura and could just see a glimmer of the person in the photos all those years ago. For the first time, he noticed her eyes. Yesterday they had been red with crying, and when she came to identify the body she was wearing glasses that were slightly tinted and not at all attractive. Whether by accident or design they had managed to partially obscure what he could see was her best feature. They were a lovely mid grey colour and quite large. He suspected they were the kind of eyes that changed colour according to what she was wearing, or what mood she was in.
‘Laura, I’m sorry that we have to bother you again, but we do need to get down to some formal questioning. Is that okay?’
‘Of course,’ she replied. Tom could sense some lingering hostility, and it wasn’t the atmosphere he wanted. He would have to tread carefully.
‘If it’s not too painful for you, can you please tell me when you last spoke to your husband?’
‘Yes. I phoned him on Thursday morning to confirm that I was planning to come back on Saturday and was about to book the flight. He was at the office, and Rosie answered.’
‘You didn’t speak to him again between then and leaving the house in Italy?’
‘I did try to call him on Saturday, just to let him know what time I’d be home. I called him here, because Alexa was supposed to be coming for the weekend. But I got no answer, so I left a message.’
‘And that call was from your house in Italy, was it?’
Laura nodded again. Tom didn’t have to tell Becky that she would need to get the phone records, although she’d had dealings with Telecom Italia before, and he was sure she wouldn’t be relishing the thought of the return match.
‘Will the message still be on your phone, do you know?’
‘I certainly haven’t deleted it. I haven’t been answering the phone myself - Imogen’s been filtering calls. But I don’t think she would have deleted anything without asking me, so it should still be there.’
‘Okay’ said Tom. ‘Perhaps we can check that later. We’ll want to look at your husband’s diary and his computer too, if that’s okay.’
Laura smiled. ‘Be my guest, but you’ll have a problem with his computer because it’s password protected. I tried to use it the other week to book a flight when my laptop was playing up, but it just asked me for the password.’
Becky looked up from her notepad. ‘Didn’t you ask your husband for the password?’
Laura’s laugh was not one of amusement. ‘There is no way that Hugo would give me the password to his computer. He was a very private man, and he believed that we are all entitled to our own secrets.’
Tom knew that he was pushing it, but somehow Laura had opened a small door, offering an insight into their relationship.
‘Did you agree?’
Laura shrugged.
‘Each to his own, Tom. He had many good points, as I’m sure you know, so it was easy to forgive him the little things. He hardly ever used his computer anyway. I don’t think he knew much more than how to turn it on.’
Tom looked at her thoughtfully. He was a long way from understanding Sir Hugo and Lady Laura Fletcher’s relationship.
‘We’ll get a computer specialist out here, if that’s okay. Becky, can you get onto that as soon as we’re finished, please’.
Turning back to Laura, Tom asked, ‘Did you ever use the apartment in Egerton Crescent, Laura?’
He was certain he knew the answer to this. The fact that there were no personal items belonging to a woman indicated that she didn’t stay there for long periods. But then there were her fingerprints to explain.
‘I haven’t stayed there for years. I sometimes called in when I was in London, and perhaps I would go up to the drawing room, or to the kitchen. But I haven’t stayed overnight for maybe six years.’
‘Wasn’t it handy to stay there when you went up to London, to the theatre or to one of the charity functions?’
‘I haven’t been to any functions for quite some time. Hugo thought they were probably a bit tedious for me, and with his hectic schedule we didn’t get much chance to go to the theatre.’
But you used to go to the charity dinners, Tom thought. I’ve seen the pictures. So what changed, I wonder?
‘When were you last there?’ he asked.
‘I called in last week, before I left for Italy. Hugo needed a dinner jacket, and I said I’d bring it myself. I hung it in the wardrobe in the bedroom. If you’re checking fingerprints, I don’t think I touched anything else in there. But I did use the bathroom. Then I went into the kitchen, made myself a cup of tea, and took it into the drawing room.’
That explained all the prints they had found, particularly those in the bedroom which had seemed a bit strange as they were only in one area. There was no point in pursuing this line of questioning, so he moved on.
‘What can you tell me about the bodyguards? I know that your husband employed the services of a bodyguard agency, but his use of these men seemed to be a bit sporadic. We’ve checked with the agency, and he definitely stood them down for the weekend.’
‘Hugo was expecting to be at home with Alexa this weekend. The house has good security, and he was unlikely to be going out. I’ve no idea why he ended up in town. To be honest, he’s only been using bodyguards for a couple of years, and he tended to use them for a bit of show - to try to demonstrate that his charity put him in danger. I believe he thought it made him seem more important.’ Laura paused.
Tom didn’t miss the slightly derisive tone. He had a vision of Laura faintly mocking Hugo in the past, and given the events of the last couple of days, now regretting it. But perhaps he was simply attributing the scathing tones of his ex-wife to Laura, who had maybe treated her husband’s foibles more sympathetically.
Tom wasn’t ready to drop the subject.
‘Surely if he was effectively putting these guys out of business - the pimps, that is - they were going to feel fairly antagonistic towards him? I’ve always understood that he was considered to be walking a dangerous line.’
Laura gave him a rueful smile.
‘I’m sorry, my scepticism on reflection seems ridiculous. Of course it put him in danger, and it was very brave of him. It’s just that it sometimes felt as if we were living in some bad American movie. He tended to use the bodyguards when he went to well-publicised functions. Those times were perceived to be the most threatening.’
At that moment, Imogen kicked the door open without ceremony, and walked in with a tray of tea, coffee and biscuits. Tom decided that now would be a good time to break the questioning.
‘Just before we pour the drinks, do you think we could listen to the phone message, please? It’s just routine, but it will help us to confirm the date, time, etcetera.’
‘Of course. I’ll show yo
u where the phone is.’
Leaving Imogen to pour tea and coffee for everybody, they walked across the austere hallway and through a door opposite the drawing room.
‘This is Hugo’s study. This was his private domain, and I rarely came in here. Feel free to look anywhere you like. I think the filing cabinets are locked, and I’m afraid I don’t know where the keys are - but you can certainly have a look for them, or break the cabinets open if you want to. Try the computer if you like; perhaps you’ll have more luck than I did.’
Laura pointed to the phone. ‘Help yourself.’
Tom glanced at the message light, then back up at Laura. ‘It says four messages. Are you happy for me to listen to them all?’
Laura looked slightly surprised by this information, but not at all concerned and simply nodded. Tom pressed the ‘play’ button, having first checked that the time on the machine was correct. Unless it had been tampered with, the times of the messages would be accurate.
The first message was from Laura on Saturday, exactly as she had said.
‘Hugo darling, it’s me. I thought you’d be at home this morning? Alexa’s coming, isn’t she? Could you tell her that my flight is in the afternoon, but she should still be up when I get home. I’ll look forward to seeing you both this evening. I should be back about eightish. Hope everything’s okay. I’m leaving for the airport soon, so don’t bother to call me back. I managed to get the olives picked so we’ll have lots of delicious oil to look forward to. Lots of love.’
Tom noted the time was just after mid-day, and realised that when Laura made this call, Hugo was already dead.
‘Olives?’ he asked, thinking that the call may have upset Laura and wanting to lighten the mood.
‘Yes, we’ve got about twenty olive trees. It’s not many, but I find picking them quite therapeutic. I finished them on Friday afternoon. Oh God, I forgot to arrange to have them picked up this morning for pressing. They’ll be ruined if I don’t remember!’
Never having picked olives in his life, Tom could nevertheless see that it might be a pleasant pastime, as the sun was no doubt still shining in central Italy. But he couldn’t quite see that a few litres of oil mattered much in the overall scheme of things.
Tom Douglas Box Set Page 11