“But she said he positively insisted she still went.”
They stared at each other, baffled.
“It’s only a trivial thing of course,” Thanet said at last, “but it’s like so many other things in this case. It just doesn’t make sense. Ah well, perhaps it’ll all become clear in the fullness of time. It’s pointless to sit about here speculating any longer. Let’s go out to see her. We’ll just make those phone calls first. You get on to the Met, ask them if they can discreetly find out what sort of car Lee drives—I still don’t want him alerted, by the way—and I’ll make the arrangements to have the stomach contents sent to London.”
On the way to Pine Lodge, Thanet stared moodily out of the window. Yesterday’s crisp, bright weather had vanished overnight and the sky was a uniform, leaden grey. A steady drizzle was falling, slicking the pavements and blurring the silhouettes of roof-tops. The faces of passers-by were dour, as if the dreariness of the day had seeped into their souls.
“Why do they think we’ve got zebra crossings?” muttered Lineham, braking sharply as a pedestrian dashed out from the kerb.
Thanet glanced at the sergeant, his attention caught by some undertone in his voice. Lineham was driving with a frowning concentration, his eyes bleak. Thanet remembered what Joan had said last night. Perhaps he should at least give Lineham the opportunity to talk, if he wanted to.
“Anything wrong, Mike?”
Lineham glanced at him uneasily, shook his head. “I was only thinking about Mrs Pettifer.”
Thanet had to accept the statement at its face value. He couldn’t press the point. The opening had been there, if Lineham had wished to take it.
“What about her?”
“I really can’t make her out.”
“No. Ditto. Perhaps it’s something to do with what we were saying the other day, that with actors we’re constantly wondering if they’re putting on a performance or not. And in view of what we’ve learnt about her since then, it’s difficult to believe that she was completely sincere. And yet …”
“What?”
“I’m not sure,” Thanet said slowly. “It’s just that, well, that show of grief … There was something odd about it.” He thought back, trying to put his finger on the elusive impression. “It’s almost,” he said at last, “as if she was surprised at herself, at the way she was reacting.”
“I don’t see what you’re getting at.”
Thanet grinned. “That’s not surprising. I’m not really sure myself. If only we knew whether or not Pettifer knew she’d been unfaithful to him.”
“It does seem to be the only possible reason he could have had, for killing himself.”
“But surely, Mike, if he had known, someone would have noticed? Mrs Price, for instance. She knew him well and she was there, in the house, all the time. Even if Pettifer had put on a brave front at work, to salvage his pride perhaps, surely Mrs Price would have seen some hint of the true state of affairs? But obviously she didn’t. If she had, I’d have thought she’d be only too ready to say so. It’s obvious she still disapproves of Mrs Pettifer.”
“Perhaps that’s why Pettifer felt it necessary to put up a front at home, too.”
“I don’t follow you.”
“Well, Pettifer must have been aware that Mrs Price didn’t like his wife, disapproved of his second marriage, and I imagine he would have resented her attitude. I should think he would have felt it was none of her business. So, if he found out that she was right and he was wrong, then he would have found it very difficult to lose face by behaving in front of her in such a way as to show her his disillusionment.”
“Possibly. Even so, I can’t help feeling it would have shown, in little ways—in a tone of voice, a look, a gesture.”
“Maybe.”
Thanet sighed. “What we really need is the opinion of someone in front of whom the Pettifers wouldn’t have been on their guard, someone whose opinion wouldn’t have mattered to them, or who could have observed them without their realising it.”
“Next thing we know, you’ll be subpoenaing the flies on the wall,” Lineham said with a grin.
Thanet laughed. “A fly on the wall would be perfect. Incidentally, while I’m talking to Mrs Pettifer, I’d like you to nip up and take a look at her room.”
“Won’t she object?”
“I don’t see why. After all, she’s the one who’s insisting he couldn’t have killed himself. She can scarcely complain that we’re being too thorough. We’ll ask permission, of course, but frankly I can’t see how she can refuse it. Did you search Andrew’s room the other day, by the way?”
“Just a quick look, that’s all.”
“Go over it again, then.”
“You don’t think he’s involved, do you?”
“Just being careful,” Thanet said evasively. “Ah, here we are.”
Mrs Price showed them into the drawing room. Gemma Pettifer was lying on the brocade sofa. There was a typescript propped up against the mound of her belly, but she wasn’t reading. Thanet had the impression that they were disturbing some profound reverie; the expression on Gemma’s face as she looked towards them was uncomprehending, her eyes glazed. She made no attempt to rise.
“Inpsector Thanet, Mrs Pettifer,” Mrs Price repeated, raising her voice a little.
Gemma’s eyes cleared and now there was recognition in them. “Oh, Inspector, forgive me.” Awkwardly she swung her feet to the floor.
“Please,” he said quickly, “don’t get up. There’s no need.”
“Do sit down.” Her glance included Lineham.
“I wonder … my sergeant wasn’t able to finish looking around upstairs, the other day,” Thanet said. “Do you think …”
“In my bedroom, you mean? By all means.”
“And in Andrew’s room too, if you don’t mind.”
“Andrew’s?” Her eyebrows arched. “Well yes, of course, if it’s necessary. Though I don’t quite see …”
“Just routine,” said Thanet. Oh, the usefulness of that blanket expression!
Lineham went out and Thanet sat down, taking his time and deliberately choosing a deep, comfortable armchair. Out of the corner of his eye he saw her relax, the lines of her body settling back into the cushioned depths of the sofa. Briefly, he reviewed in his mind what he had learned about this woman from Deborah Chivers. If the younger woman was to be believed, Gemma was self-centred, careless of other people’s feelings, had a penchant for younger men … Not a pretty catalogue. Once again, he cursed the cloud of uncertainty which hovered over the manner of Pettifer’s death, the resulting ambivalence which he, Thanet, felt towards Gemma Pettifer. Should he treat her as a grieving widow, or as a potential murderess? This wasn’t going to be easy.
She was watching him expectantly. “Well?” she said with a faint smile. “What can I do for you, Inspector?”
He decided on strict neutrality. If she thought him unsympathetic, it couldn’t be helped.
“The post mortem on your husband was carried out this morning,” he began, and saw her flinch. “And it may interest you to know that there was no sign of illness.”
“I’m not surprised. I told you, he was very fit, took very good care of his health …”
“So there’s no possible reason for suicide there.”
“But that’s what I’ve been telling you!” she cried impatiently, swinging her feet to the floor and leaning forward intently. “There wasn’t any reason, none at all. That’s why …”
“Mrs Pettifer,” Thanet interrupted. “I think I ought to tell you … We know about Mr Lee.”
“Oh.” She was silent for a few moments, folding her hands together and staring down at them. Then she raised her head to flash him a look of defiance. “But that makes no difference. My husband had no idea that Mr Lee and I …”
“… were lovers?” Thanet finished for her. “How can you be sure of that?”
She raised her hands in a helpless gesture. “I just am, that’s all.”
“But what makes you so certain?”
“Oh come, Inspector. You’re married, aren’t you? If you’d found out that your wife was being unfaithful, do you mean to say that your attitude towards her would have remained completely unchanged?”
A palpable hit there, Thanet admitted silently. Because of course, it wouldn’t have. “What I would or would not do in such circumstances is beside the point, Mrs Pettifer,” he said calmly. “The point at issue is what your husband would or would not have done. It is, as I’m sure you will agree, a matter of temperament.”
“So?”
“I understand that your husband was rather a reserved man. If he had found out about your … affair, might he not simply have said nothing, brooded on it in private and, eventually, unable to live with the knowledge, have killed himself?”
“No!” It was a cry of pain.
Acting? wondered Thanet. If only he could make up his mind.
“Not with me,” she was saying. “Not with me. He couldn’t have hidden his feelings from me.”
Nothing was going to make her budge, he could see that. Even to herself she could not begin to admit the possibility that he might have known of her disloyalty. Perhaps she really had cared for him, after all. And above all, if she had killed him, why not seize on this as the perfect reason for his having committed suicide, thereby putting her in the clear?
“And then there’s the baby,” she said, unconsciously taking up Thanet’s line of thought. “He was so looking forward to the baby coming. Andy’s adopted, you know, it would have been Arnold’s first child. It took his breath away, when I first told him about it.”
“He was surprised?”
“Surprised and delighted.” She gave a reminiscent little smile. “He thought, you see, that I didn’t want any … I’d made a bit of a thing about it, earlier on. Well, I was much younger then … Before he asked me to marry him he went to great pains to make sure I knew he wouldn’t expect me to produce any children. He knew how much my career meant to me, you see. And he was very proud of me …”
“What made you change your mind? About having children, I mean?”
She shrugged. “I didn’t actually make a conscious decision. But, underneath, I must have decided I wanted one. They say that if you forget to take the Pill, it shows that subconsciously you’re wanting to conceive. So when I did … When you suddenly realise that the baby’s not an abstract thing, it’s actually there inside you, growing bigger with every day that passes … And if you’ve no real justification for killing it, for having an abortion … And anyway, I’m established in my profession now. I can pick and choose my parts. Taking time off to have a child isn’t going to set me back. And motherhood’s an important part of being a woman, isn’t it? For all I know, it’ll extend my powers as an actress into a whole new dimension.”
Thanet’s sympathy—which had, despite his resolution to remain impartial, been growing by the minute—dissolved abruptly. A more self-centred reason for having a child he couldn’t imagine.
“Would it surprise you,” he said, aware that he was being rude in cutting her off like this, and not caring, “to know that according to the pathologist your husband had no cold symptoms whatsoever?”
And this did astonish her (or was she just acting, dammit?). Her eyes widened and her mouth dropped open slightly. “It certainly does.”
“Why?”
“Well, because he said he had a cold coming on. And he wasn’t the sort of man to mention it unless he was pretty certain. I mean, usually I had to more or less make him go to bed, if there was anything wrong with him.”
“And that night?”
“That’s why I’m surprised at what you say. That night he scarcely needed any persuading at all. He went off to bed like a lamb.” She was frowning, looking as baffled as Thanet felt. “It’s crazy. If he’d been the sort of man to play up like that in order to stop me going out, I could understand it. But he wasn’t. Just the opposite, in fact. As I told you, when I suggested I cancel my engagement, he wouldn’t hear of it. Insisted I still went …” Suddenly her face crumpled and she buried it in her hands. “It’s all like a nightmare,” she said. “I keep thinking I’ll wake up and he’ll be there …”
Thanet could have sworn the emotion was genuine. He waited for a few moments then said, “When your husband came home that night, did he say anything about his car?”
He thought her shoulders tensed before she raised her head. “Oh yes,” she said, “I meant to mention that to you. It was odd, wasn’t it? I didn’t even realise his car wasn’t in the garage until Clough’s left the keys with the policeman at the door.”
“You didn’t know your husband had left his car at the Centre?”
She shook her head. “He didn’t say anything about it, so I assumed he’d driven home as usual. I rang Clough’s, after the car was delivered here next morning, and they told me he’d asked them to fix it and bring it back here next day.”
“I believe you said you took a taxi to the station?”
“That’s right. I always do when I stay in town overnight. I don’t like leaving my car in the station car park all night. Otherwise I’d have noticed my husband’s car wasn’t there when I went into the garage.”
“Did he normally mention it, if something went wrong with his car?”
“Yes. Of course, there wasn’t much time to talk, that evening. I could see as soon as he arrived home that he was looking under the weather. Though now that you say there was nothing wrong with him …” She put up her hands, began to massage her temples with her fingertips. “It’s all so confusing …”
There was a knock at the door and Lineham came in, carrying a crumpled sheet of paper. “Sorry to interrupt, sir, but I thought you’d like to see this.”
Thanet glanced at him sharply. There had been an undercurrent of emotion in Lineham’s voice which Thanet couldn’t quite identify. He took the proffered sheet of paper and his scalp prickled as he read it. The handwriting was different from that of the suicide note:
My darling, darling Gemma,
You looked so beautiful last night, I can’t get you out of my mind. Lying here on my bed I close my eyes and pretend that you are beside me, that I can touch—
Thanet glanced at Gemma Pettifer, who was watching him expectantly. “Would you excuse us for a moment?”
13
In the hall, he and Lineham conversed in whispers.
“Where did you find this?”
“In Andrew’s room. Under one of the pedestals of his desk.”
A draft, then, Thanet guessed, scrumpled up and discarded and, unknown to Andrew, kicked out of sight. So, had the final version ever been sent?
“What do you think, sir? Are we going to show it to her?”
Thanet shook his head. “Not just yet.”
“But why not? I know she’s pregnant and we have to be careful, but why should that always let her off the hook? If she really has seduced him, why should she get away with it?”
“I’m not thinking of her, Mike. Just consider for a moment how Andrew would feel if there isn’t any truth in this, if this letter is just part of an adolescent fantasy … and we showed it to her.”
Lineham’s face showed that he had taken the point. “I see what you mean. What are we going to do, then?”
“Nothing for the moment.”
Thanet went back into the drawing room. When he said that he and Lineham were leaving now, Gemma Pettifer frowned.
“That piece of paper your sergeant brought in. What was it?”
“I’m afraid I can’t tell you that.” Thanet was polite, but firm.
“Where did he find it, then? Surely I have a right to know that, at least.”
“In Andrew’s room.”
“Andrew’s room?” The stress on the first syllable said: But what possible interest could there be in anything found in Andrew’s room?
“Yes. And now I’m afraid we really must go.”
Lineham was waiting in the car.
“Well, Mike, what do you think?” Thanet asked, as he fastened his seat belt. “Fact or fantasy?”
“Thinking it over … fantasy.”
“Why?”
“Well he is only fifteen …”
“Oh come on, Mike, don’t be naive. You know as well as I do that these things happen.”
“Yes.” Lineham paused. “I suppose, if I’m honest, I just don’t want it to be true. I felt sorry for Andrew the other day and I don’t like the idea of his being in her clutches.” He gave a shamefaced grin. “There speaks the detached investigator.”
“Full marks for insight, anyway.” Thanet was pleased. In his view a readiness to question his own motives and to understand his own reactions were hallmarks of the good detective. “Anyway, as it happens, I’m inclined to agree with you. I may be wrong, of course, but having seen Andrew I just can’t visualise him having a torrid affair with his adoptive mother. Fantasising about one, yes … though it does explain his attitude to her the other day. Let’s go and have a bite to eat, while we think about it.”
Lineham waited until they had settled down in a quiet corner of the pub with their beer and pasties before saying, “What did you mean, about the letter explaining Andrew’s attitude to Gemma?”
“Well, I think we were all a bit taken aback at that outburst of his, weren’t we? But now, well, I can see that if he’s had secret hankerings after Gemma he might well feel very guilty about them, angry with himself for having them.”
“And he might have directed that anger against her instead?”
“Mmm,” said Thanet, his mouth full of pasty. He chewed, swallowed. “He might even imagine that it had something to do with his father’s death.”
“You mean, that his father might have suspected that he and Gemma were having an affair and killed himself because of that?”
“I wouldn’t think he’d have been as specific as that. If he had, he’d no doubt have seen how unlikely that was. No, I’d think it would be much more a generalised feeling of guilt, an irrational idea that he might somehow have contributed towards his father’s depression. And if he did feel that, then this would account for his vehemence in insisting that it couldn’t have been suicide.”
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