‘He told her this after they knew Dermot was dead?’
‘Mmm. Up to then, Tim had promised not to tell her. Promised his sister and Mary. It was to save Rosemary’s feelings.’
‘Mary knew though?’
‘Yes. He told her yesterday afternoon, just before Rosemary got home with the daughter. Mary left soon after to go back to the office. Said she wouldn’t be long. But it was after seven when she got back. Rosemary told me all this when we were just making conversation. Rather difficult conversation in the circumstances. She was saying what a help Mary had been all week, in so many ways. That she must have had to neglect her important work.’
‘Except she went to make up for it between five and seven yesterday?’ Treasure considered the two melon skins before dropping them in the waste bin.
‘On the face of it, yes. But what if Mary had really gone to confront Jane at her house then? About her being with Dermot? When he was supposed to have been on his way to Nottingham.’
‘Mary might have got a flea in her ear if she’d done that.
Helga Greet was also what you might call ginger. When she was Kirsty Welling she wore a black wig. So it could have been Greet or Jane who was with Dermot. More likely Greet. She was certainly with him some time on Sunday to give him the flat key. Furlong said so. Perhaps Dermot drove her to the airport to catch a plane to Zürich?’
‘Should the police be told what Tim saw?’
‘Doesn’t have much significance now where Dermot was on Sunday. Or who he was with.’
‘Except it might have had for Mary when the little boy told her yesterday. I still think it could have sent her to Jane to demand an explanation. And she could have run into Stuart outside Jane’s house, then followed Jane.’
‘Could have,’ he repeated, but sounding unconvinced.
‘Mary wouldn’t have had trouble getting some of the knock-out drug. She even had time to go to the factory for it.’
‘You’re building a lot on a slim hypothesis.’
‘Darling, you’re very protective towards Mary. I think it’s because you rather fancy her.’ Molly gave an indulgent smile.
‘Expect so,’ he replied, as though the comment had hardly rated one. ‘All right. If Stuart didn’t follow Jane and then murder Dermot. If the murder wasn’t done by one of Helga Greet’s people— ’
‘And you don’t believe it was.’
‘That’s right. In that case it could have been Bob who followed her, after hearing the tape before or immediately after she left. Or it could have been Mary after talking to Stuart. Or someone else who talked to Stuart.’
‘You seem sure Stuart told someone what he knew.’
Treasure picked up the wine bottle to see that it was empty. ‘I’m convinced he did. Then washed his hands of the whole thing. Like Pontius Pilate.’
‘She’s numb about it, I tell you. As if she’s not involved. Not remotely.’ Bob Larden looked up from the pewter tankard he was holding and stared out across the river, except his gaze was empty. The Managing Director of Closter Drug was grey faced. He seemed to have aged a generation since Treasure had last seen him.
‘Jane’s had a bad shock,’ said the banker, who was standing beside the other man.
‘She and I both have.’
‘You might say we all have.’
The two were on the otherwise empty terrace of The Doves, the old waterside pub at Hammersmith. They had arranged to meet there after talking on the telephone. Jane Larden’s sister was keeping her company for an hour: Larden had been glad of the excuse to get away briefly.
There was now a distinct chill in the night air but both men were dressed against it. The temperature was also ensuring their privacy: other customers were staying in the warmth of the bar.
‘The husband is always the last to know about a wife’s infidelities,’ Larden went on. ‘I suppose that’s true this time?’
‘I believe there’d been some talk. Nothing concrete.’
‘Some talk. Oh God.’ Larden leaned heavily on the rail over the river. ‘I believe I did know. When she made me sell the shares. To protect Dermot. But subconsciously I thought at least I was buying her loyalty.’ He grunted. ‘How blind can you be? When you’re besotted by someone.’
‘And you’re standing by her.’
‘You think that’s weak? She’s nearly ruined me. Cost me a fortune, anyway. And she was leaving me for him. Now she’s made it impossible for me to go on running Closter. But yes, as you say, I’m standing by her. You know why? Because I’m getting her back. That devious bastard’s dead. I’m not in competition for her. Not any more. And I love her. To distraction.’
Treasure shifted his feet. Confessions always made him uncomfortable. ‘Dermot had a curious fascination for women. Jane wasn’t the only one to succumb to a … to a temporary aberration.’ He was aware that the claims were wooden, and the comfort slim. ‘I doubt they’d have lasted together,’ he completed.
‘You think that too?’ said Larden, with a pathetic eagerness.
‘I don’t believe she’d have worn the dependency Dermot seemed to look for in women. Maybe even her design work wouldn’t have fitted. Incidentally, Molly says she’s good at that. Very good.’ It was pleasing to have some leavening to add to the conversation.
‘She is, you know.’ The words were just as eager as before. ‘Molly’s not the only one. You know Jane’s just starting on the Closter-Bennets’ house?’ The two men exchanged glances to acknowledge what an achievement that was. ‘Except Barbara’s always breaking dates because of sick animals. She did that yesterday.’ His face had clouded again. ‘It wouldn’t have changed anything if she hadn’t, I suppose.’
‘Probably not. You’re hardly ruined, you know.’ Treasure swirled the beer in his tankard. ‘And you don’t have to write off your job.’
‘Although my wife was party to a criminal conspiracy to hand the company to Krontag?’
‘Your position is embarrassing but not necessarily untenable. I’m certainly not looking for your resignation.’
‘Thank you, Mark.’
‘I’m thinking of what’s best for the company and the shareholders. Whether or not the Monopolies Commission give a thumbs down on a Swiss takeover, I’ve a strong suspicion there’ll now be a counter bid from somewhere else.’
‘Britain or America?’
‘One or the other, yes.’
‘Because Dermot’s death accentuates our vulnerability?’
‘Precisely. In any event, I’d like to have you running the place still if we have more important choices thrust upon us.’
‘You think it makes more sense now for us to be taken over?’
Treasure thought for a moment before replying. ‘Depends a good deal on how we come out of the present impasse. Put baldly, it partly depends on who murdered Dermot.’
‘They should arrest Helga Greet, of course.’
‘Not so easy, in the circumstances. Nor to prove she was involved in the murder.’
‘Who else could have done it? Her or one of her minions?’ When his companion didn’t comment Larden went on awkwardly: ‘Jane had nothing to do with it.’
‘Good.’ Except he was less convinced than he pretended.
‘It was her own idea to go to the police.’
‘What Helga Greet said about her was fairly damning, I gather.’
‘Jane could have denied all that.’
‘With her fingerprints all over the flat? Of course, since she’d just decorated the place, I suppose she could have said— ’
‘We both thought she should tell the truth,’ Larden interrupted.
‘Very wise. Even though it included Hackle’s extraordinary charge about my knowing there was a plan to bring down the price of Closter shares.’
Larden straightened. ‘The police told you that? Jane knew it was nonsense, and said so. They got it out of her when they cautioned her about leaving nothing out of her statement. She hadn’t mentioned it to me or the solic
itor first. The police attached no credence to it. They accepted it was one of the things Hackle said to make Jane feel easier.’
‘Did they? They still came to see me about it. And they certainly didn’t mention Jane had said it was nonsense.’
‘I’m sorry, Mark. If I’d realised they were facing you with it I’d have warned you. I’m sure they were only checking it out for the book.’
‘And I’m sure I’ll survive it.’ Having it in perspective helped. ‘Tell me, did you play back a recording of the phone conversation Jane and Dermot had at lunchtime yesterday?’
Larden took some moments before replying. ‘Has Stuart Bodlin been in touch with you?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ve been trying to reach him. He played that tape didn’t he? That’s why he left yesterday in such a hurry?’
‘When did you play it, Bob?’
‘Well after Jane had left. More than an hour after.’ He paused. ‘I didn’t follow her. I had no reason to. Not at the time. And later I had no idea where she was.’
‘Laurence Stricton was coming to see you at the house at six. You rang him at five thirty to delay the meeting. You said you weren’t through with Professor Garside. That wasn’t true was it?’
‘No it wasn’t. After I heard the tape, I had to see Jane. You must understand that? I hoped she might be back shortly.’
‘Stricton insisted it was still important you saw him last night. You agreed to meet at his club at seven. Did Jane return before you left for that?’
‘No she didn’t. In the end I realised it was pointless waiting. She’d known Stricton was coming. I’d told her he and I would be going out to dinner. There was no reason why she had to come back. I tried dialling her carphone, but it was on the blink yesterday. Anyway, there was no answer.’
‘And you stayed in the house from the time she left it till when?’
‘Until I left to meet Stricton. That was around five to seven. I missed Jane by minutes. I swear I was home the whole time before that. You believe me don’t you?’
‘Yes.’ Treasure stood up from where he had been leaning. ‘Do the police?’
‘They haven’t asked.’
‘I think they will.’
Chapter Eighteen
Stuart Bodlin merely stirred at the first ring of the doorbell. He came more awake at the second ring, fumbled for his spectacles, put them on, but still had difficulty focusing on the digital bedside clock.
It was 5.47 a.m. Bodlin sighed heavily, swung his naked body out of the double bed, then reached for his short silk robe. The robe had been a Christmas present from Julian – whom Bodlin had no doubt was now standing at the front door.
Thirty-four year old Julian was appearing with a touring company. It wasn’t much of a part, but then he wasn’t much of an actor, and it was good for his self-esteem to get anything. The company was playing in Coventry this week.
Julian must have decided to get up early and drive home, just for the day. He had called Bodlin the night before, anxious about him. Julian was totally unselfish – not like the other caller, the earlier one, who really only wanted to know whether Bodlin had let on to anyone about what had happened in Fulham on Wednesday afternoon. Both callers had known how upset Bodlin had been, but only Julian had been concerned simply to proffer comfort and support.
But Julian was oblivious of time. Dear Julian: he had probably tried to open the door with his key, realised that it was bolted as well as locked, then rung the bell as though it were already mid-morning.
Bodlin always shot the bolts at night when he was alone.
He padded on to the landing of the little mews house in Hammersmith. It was time he bought them something grander. He could well afford it. But he and Julian had been happy enough here. He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes before making unsteady progress down the steep stairs. He was still not completely awake, after sleeping only fitfully all night. There was too much on his mind – and more, not less, since his visit to the Treasures.
When he reached the front door he drew the upper bolt, then, out of habit, squinted through the peep-hole.
It wasn’t Julian. Bodlin’s heart sank when he saw who it was – in the driving seat of the car, one arm through the open window, and not bothering to get out until there were signs that Bodlin was in. That was the worst of living in a mews. People could drive right up to your front door and ring the bell with a lot less effort than it took you to answer it. He drew the lower bolt, and wrapped the robe more closely around him. Then he opened the door wide.
‘Its early enough— ’ he began, dazzled by the early sunlight outside. But he never finished the sentence.
The driver lifted the shotgun into view and fired one barrel at Bodlin’s head.
At point blank range the result was devastating.
‘Are you always here this early, Mrs Tanner?’ Treasure asked as she handed him the coffee cup. It was eight twenty.
‘If required. It’s no hardship. We live just down the road. Is that enough sugar?’
‘Plenty, thanks. You always make excellent coffee.’
‘Mr Larden can’t stand instant.’
‘Well it’s worth the extra effort to have the real thing.’ He sipped appreciatively, continuing to stand in the centre of her office.
‘Wouldn’t you like to sit in Mr Larden’s office?’
‘In a minute. When the others arrive.’ He had something he wanted to ask her.
‘I don’t know what’s happened to Mr Larden, I’m sure.’ She went back to unnecessary fiddling with the coffee things on the wall table behind her desk. She was not at all at ease. Mr Treasure was Chairman after all, and a City bigwig. This was the first time she had ever had to entertain him alone – so why did it have to be on this of all mornings? Not that he wasn’t charm itself: a proper gentleman, and dishy with it. She tried telling herself she ought to be flattered he wanted to stay in here. ‘Mr Larden’s usually ahead of the time he says. So much on his plate today, of course. Well, you all have. I thought the takeover business was bad enough. But with Mr Hackle being kidnapped and then dying on top. Well, I don’t know at all. So young, too. He’ll be missed. Terrible thing.’ In truth, she hadn’t been much affected by Hackle’s death. Bert seemed to have been more moved than she was: men were funny. ‘It was the strain on his heart, I expect. The kidnap could explain that. Devils, whoever they were. I never dreamed it was that. His being away, I mean. We all thought it was odd, of course.’ She always talked too much when she was nervous, and she knew it. She smoothed the top of the flower print dress and wished the skirt was slightly longer – not, she thought, that how much thigh Doris Tanner was showing or not showing would signify to a bloke with a wife like this one’s.
‘Dreadful thing to have happened. Awful for his family,’ said Treasure neutrally. The news that Hackle had been murdered had not yet been made public, but he was surprised that it hadn’t reached Larden’s private secretary. Even so, it suited his purpose that she should stay uninformed for the moment. ‘Doctor Ricini’s done a marvellous job supporting Mrs Hackle, I gather.’
‘She would do.’ And she hadn’t done a bad one supporting Mr Hackle in her time and all, Doris concluded cynically.
‘That reminds me, were Doctor Ricini or Mr McFee in the office after hours the night before last, d’you remember? At sevenish, say? I know you often work late yourself.’
She shook her head. ‘Wednesday I can’t help. I was off early. Mr Larden said I could go at half three. My hubby works nights, you know? Chance for us to see each other for once.’ And a fine sight we got too, one way and another, she mused. ‘Was there a special reason you wanted to know, Mr Treasure?’
‘It’s not important,’ he lied. ‘I rang both of them on their direct office numbers from Zürich airport. There was no reply. I just wondered if I’d got the numbers right.’
‘And their secretaries didn’t answer either? Well they’d have gone too by then, of course. Mr Larden wasn’t
here, I know that. That’s why he let me go early.’
‘Yes, he went straight home after a meeting in London with Professor Garside.’
‘Doctor Bodlin was with him. Now I know the doctor meant to come back here after seeing the Professor, but he didn’t. His secretary, Mrs Edwards, she waited till quite late. He forgot to ring her. And about not being in yesterday.’ She made a reproving face while taking a file from her desk to a cabinet. ‘Doctor Bodlin’s a bit forgetful at times. Comes of being extra brainy I expect,’ she completed with her back to him.
‘So brainy people like us all to think.’ He smiled, drank some more coffee, and registered that she had nice legs.
She turned about. ‘I’ve just remembered something. Mrs Edwards told me Doctor Ricini was here after office hours on Wednesday. She came back around five. Unexpectedly. I don’t know whether she was still here at seven.’
‘I may have called earlier than that.’
‘Her secretary had gone already. Mrs Edwards offered to do any work she needed but there wasn’t any. Mr McFee’s often here after the others, of course. Leaves about half-past six usually. To avoid the traffic. Except he lives close enough.’ She paused, a forefinger resting daintily on two prominent front teeth. ‘If you’d been asking about Mr Closter-Bennet, I could have told you where he was at half six.’
‘Oh? Where was that?’
‘In Chiswick High Street. My husband saw him. It was a proper coincidence. Bert’s not there usually, and I don’t suppose Mr Closter-Bennet is either. Come to think, it was somewhere in Chiswick they found Mr Hackle, wasn’t it? I’m not sure where … Excuse me.’ She picked up the ringing telephone from her desk. ‘Good morning, Mr … Yes, he’s with me now.’ She handed the receiver to Treasure. ‘It’s Mr Larden for you.’
‘Good morning, Bob.’ He listened for a moment, then his eyebrows lifted in astonishment. ‘Good God. Point blank? This is terrible. How did you … You’re at the police station now?’ He let the other man speak again, this time at length, only making grunted acknowledgements to what he was being told. ‘Bob, I can’t credit they’ll be able to hold her,’ he said eventually, then went on: ‘My dear chap, is there anything I can do? … Of course you must stay with her. Your lawyer’s there already? … Leave that to me. Ring me here with any developments.’
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