by stewartgiles
ELEVEN
MONEY
Detective Sergeant Alan Thompson was not in the best of moods. Smith had ridiculed him again in front of the whole team. Even though Thompson and Smith held the same rank, Thompson believed his twenty year head start in the Police force should offer him some semblance of superiority over the Aussie upstart.
“Red light sir!” Bridge cried.
“What?” Thompson said.
He glared at Bridge and slammed on the brakes.
“Are you trying to tell me how to drive now?”
“No sir,” Bridge said, “I just didn’t think you’d seen it.”
“You just thought you’d piss me off even more did you?”
Bridge did not say another word until they had reached Frank Paxton’s house.
“Nice place,” Bridge said as Thompson parked the car badly outside. “Accountants obviously do very well for themselves.”
“They get paid well to defraud the government of taxes,” Thompson said bitterly. “You knock on the door and see it Paxton is home. This rain is really getting on my nerves.”
Bridge opened the door and ran up the driveway. He knocked on the door. It was opened by a woman in her thirties or forties, Bridge was not sure.
“Good Morning Ma’am,” he said, “my name is DC Bridge.”
He showed her his badge.
“And that’s DS Thompson in the car. His wife has just bought him a new suit and he doesn’t want to get it too wet.”
Thompson locked the car and rushed towards the house.
“DS Thompson,” he said, “can we come in please? We need to have a word with your husband.”
“Frank is not my husband,” the woman said. She rolled her eyes.
“Sorry Ma’am,” Thompson said, “I just assumed.”
“This is the twenty first century officer, things have changed. Come in, we wouldn’t want you to ruin that beautiful suit would we?”
Thompson beamed and followed her into the house.
“Would you like some coffee?” the woman said.
“Love some,” Thompson replied, “black, one sugar. The wife thinks I should lose a bit of weight.”
“You look fine to me. Anything for you?” She looked at Bridge.
“Milk, three sugars please, “Bridge said.
“Frank is in his study,” she said, “I’ll tell him you’re here. We’re still in shock, Wendy was my best friend. I can’t believe Martin could do such a thing.”
She left the room.
Everything in the house literally reeked of money.
“Doesn’t look like they have any kids,” Bridge remarked as he scanned the living room, “everything seems to be in its place. Look at that lounge suite. That alone would cost me a year’s salary; genuine leather, variable reclining settings, movable foot rests.”
Thompson glared at him.
“Would you stop with the furniture salesman shit,” he said, “and try and act like a police detective.”
Thompson’s mood had not improved.
Frank Paxton appeared in the doorway.
“Try it out,” he said to Bridge who was still admiring the lounge seat. “Have a seat.”
“Mr Paxton,” Thompson said, “we need to ask you a few questions about the Willow family.”
“Terrible state of affairs,” Paxton said.
Bridge could not help but think what a peculiar way this was to describe it.
“We’d had them round for supper, “Paxton continued, “It’s a Christmas Eve tradition. Penny was there too, their babysitter couldn’t make it. I believe she killed herself that same night.”
Paxton’s bottom lip began to quiver.
“It now seems…” Bridge said. Thompson glared at him. That murder was not yet public knowledge.
“Yes,” Thompson said, “but that’s not what we want to talk about. “Were Martin and Wendy fighting that night?”
“No more than usual,” Paxton replied.
“What do you mean by that?” Thompson said. “Did they often fight?”
He wrote something in his notebook.
“It was more like playful banter,” Paxton said, “they didn’t seem to like each other most of the time. Martin was a college professor and he didn’t really consider Wendy his intellectual equal.”
“You said was,” Bridge said, “you said he was a college professor. He still is as far as I can see.”
Paxton was clearly annoyed.
“What I’m trying to say is Martin and Wendy were just worlds apart intellectually and sometimes that made them fight.”
The woman put the coffee on the table.
“Thanks Rox,” Paxton said.
“Rox?” Thompson asked.
“Yes,” she said, “Rox. Roxy Jones, you didn’t seem interested in my name when I answered the door to you.”
“Sorry Miss Jones,”
Thompson wrote her name in his notebook, he was on his last page.
Roxy Jones sat on one of the single seaters facing the window. Bridge had made himself comfortable in her usual seat.
“You had supper with the Willows,” Thompson said, “was there anything unusual about Martin that evening?”
“He was his usual self,” Paxton replied, “We talked, ate supper, drank rather too much and smoked a couple of good cigars. All in all it was a most pleasant evening.”
“What time did they leave?”
“The taxi arrived dead on midnight. I remember because the driver actually bothered to knock on the door instead of hooting. I think he even phoned a couple of minutes before that too.”
“The taxi driver phoned you,” Bridge said, “that’s unusual.”
“Not me,” Paxton said, “he phoned Martin. His phone has this annoying ring tone. Martin missed the call. He thought it must have been the driver.”
Bridge suddenly remembered something.
“Do you have Martin Willow’s number?” he asked Paxton.
“Of course I do,” Paxton said. He took out his phone. “Its 0799…”
“Hold on,” Bridge said.
He took out a piece of paper from his coat pocket.
“Could you please write it down for me? My handwriting is terrible.”
Paxton wrote down the number and handed the paper back to Bridge.
“Sorry,” Bridge said, “one more thing, could you write Martin Willow on the top? I’ll only forget whose number it is.”
Paxton, Roxy and Thompson all looked at Bridge as if he had lost his mind. Nevertheless, Paxton did as he was asked and handed the paper back to Bridge.
“Thank you,” Bridge said, “we just need to double check it was the taxi company that phoned. It just seems strange to get a phone call so late.”
“Can we please carry on Bridge?” Thompson said. “We still have a lot of ground to cover.”
He was clearly annoyed.
“Mr Paxton,” Thompson continued, “Can you remember anything unusual about Martin that night? Think carefully.”
“There is one thing, “Roxy Jones interrupted, “it was meant as a joke but after what has happened it may have some relevance.”
She looked agitated.
“Go on.” Thompson urged.
“We were talking about what Martin does, what he lectures in. He has degrees in Psychology and Criminology or something and Frank joked about it. He put on this stupid phoney German accent and said that Martin had the qualifications to commit the perfect murder.”
“That was a joke,” Paxton insisted, “Wendy still defended him. She said he couldn’t harm a fly.”
Thompson had filled up the last page of his notebook. He sighed, it was a public holiday and there would be no shops open.
“I think we have enough for now,” he said, “but we may need to talk to you again. Thanks for the coffee; it’s much better than the swill we get at the station. Bridge, get up off that fancy couch, we h
ave a lot to do.”
The rain had died down when they stepped outside. Thompson was not happy.
“What the hell was that all about?” he said to Bridge as they drove off.
“What was what about sir?” Bridge asked.
“That nonsense about you not being able to write, the force has a bad enough name as it is without you painting us as illiterate imbeciles.”
“It was something DS Smith said sir.”
“That Australian know it all, he still thinks Martin Willow is innocent. It’s pretty bloody obvious that he did it, lock him up and throw away the key. Case closed.”
He looked at the clock on the dashboard. They had half an hour to get back to the station for a scheduled case meeting.