‘I’ll lead with the questions, Barry,’ Sophie said.
Barry pressed the doorbell. Nothing happened. He rapped on the brass knocker. ‘Why don’t people get these things fixed?’ he hissed. ‘All it probably needs is a new battery—’
The door opened. An aloof-looking woman faced them. She was taller than average, slim, with cropped greying hair. She looked them both up and down.
Barry showed his warrant card. ‘This is DCI Allen and I’m DS Marsh, from Dorset police. Are you Mrs Mary Imber? We’d like a few words if we may.’
Her lip curled. ‘Police? What on earth do you want? Is this some kind of house to house?’ She looked up and down the deserted village street.
‘May we come in for a few minutes, Mrs Imber?’ said Sophie. ‘We have quite a few questions that we need to put to you, and it’s a wee bit chilly out here.’
The woman gave an exaggerated frown but opened the door. ‘The sitting room is through here. Follow me. And I hope your shoes aren’t dirty. It costs a fortune to clean carpets nowadays and I can’t afford it.’
Sophie smiled pleasantly at her. ‘We can take them off, if you wish.’
‘No need,’ she replied grudgingly. ‘You look presentable enough.’
She led them into a low-ceilinged room that was furnished just as a thatched cottage should be — old-fashioned chairs and sofas with floral covers, matching curtains and china ornaments on polished shelves.
Sophie looked around her. ‘This is lovely. I live in a thatched cottage in Wareham.’
Mary Imber merely nodded, still looking irritated. Barry thought the cottage furnishings probably matched their owner’s personality — cold and clinical. This place wasn’t at all like his boss’s slightly disorganised, homely cottage.
‘May we sit?’ Sophie asked, not waiting for an answer. She settled herself on a small sofa. Barry sat on a hard-backed chair to one side, while Mary Imber lowered herself into an armchair opposite.
‘Now, what is this about?’ she demanded. Barry thought there was now a trace of anxiety in her voice.
‘Your car, Mrs Imber.’ Sophie smoothed out her grey skirt. ‘The small blue Ford. Are there any other drivers on the insurance apart from you?’
‘Well, my husband has his own company car. He’s away at the moment. I think he’s on the insurance policy.’
Sophie waited, looking calmly at her.
‘And my daughter.’
‘So who would have been driving it on Sunday morning twelve days ago?’
‘I don’t know,’ Mary Imber replied. ‘How can I be expected to remember that?’
‘It was a very windy day. You probably remember the previous night’s storm. It was right above us here in Dorset. The worst was over by the next morning but it was still extremely gusty. The wind only died away late in the afternoon.’
Mary Imber did not respond. Barry watched in fascination.
‘Where’s the car at the moment?’ Sophie asked.
A pause. ‘My daughter has it.’
‘Locally?’
‘No. She’s in Exeter. She’s a student there.’
‘Does she often take the car with her to Exeter?’
‘Yes. It’s difficult to get there by train from here. There’s no direct service.’
‘So while she’s at university she has the car with her? All the time?’
Grudgingly, Mrs Imber nodded.
‘What about that weekend? Was she in Exeter or here?’
‘She came home that weekend. She had a great deal of laundry to do.’
‘Did she go out in the car? That Sunday morning?’
Mary Imber looked angry. ‘Look, what’s all this about? Why are you interested in my car and its whereabouts? Why aren’t you out catching criminals? God knows we pay enough in taxes. When there’s a break-in around here nothing happens, and yet here you are asking bizarre questions about my car. I may well make a complaint about this waste of taxpayers’ money. Who is it? The Police and Crime Commissioner? Probably some man who never leaves his comfortable office, all paid for at our expense. It’s a shameful state of affairs.’
‘A man died that morning. His body was found in the sea just off Dancing Ledge. Do you know the place, Mrs Imber?’
‘I’m aware of it. We may have walked past it on the coast path a couple of times. But I don’t see what this man’s death has to do with my car.’
‘We’ve accounted for every car parked in the vicinity. Apart from yours, that is. I just want to know what it was doing there, parked at Durlston Country Park. It was there for just over three hours that morning.’
Silence. Mary Imber grew pale. Her face seemed to sag.
‘I’ll just put the kettle on,’ she whispered hoarsely.
‘DS Marsh is a highly talented tea and coffee maker, Mrs Imber. Perhaps he can give you a hand.’ Sophie smiled, but Hattie's mother had already left the room. Barry followed her through the hall and into a small, well-fitted kitchen. She switched on a kettle. Barry took down three mugs from their hooks and placed them on the work surface. Mary Imber kept her back to him all the time. He could feel the tension, so intense the air almost crackled.
Finally she spoke, coldly. ‘I don’t need your help. Please go away. Go back to your colleague. I’m sure you have things to talk about, like all busybodies.’
‘I can help carry the mugs,’ Barry said.
‘What makes you think I was going to make a drink for you? I may have just felt the need for a coffee myself. That was highly presumptive of you.’
‘You seem anxious, Mrs Imber.’
‘And you have a damned cheek in commenting upon how you think I feel. Did I ask for your opinion? Most definitely not. Kindly keep your thoughts to yourself.’
Angry pink spots had appeared on her cheeks. She poured water into one of the mugs. Barry saw that her hand was shaking.
‘Coffee or tea?’ she asked, reluctantly.
‘That’s kind of you. Coffee for both of us, please.’
He carried the three mugs back to the sitting room. Sophie was standing at the fireplace, looking at the framed photos arranged above it. She turned and smiled at Hattie’s mother.
‘This must be your daughter. Harriet, did you say? And is this your son?’
Mary Imber nodded curtly. ‘Richard is younger. He’s still away at school, doing his A levels. He doesn’t drive yet.’
Sophie sat down again and took a sip of her coffee. ‘So do you know what Harriet was doing that morning, parked at Durlston?’
Mary Imber shook her head. She said nothing.
‘Did you know Edwina Davis, Mrs Imber?’
Mary Imber looked shocked. Her face paled again. ‘What?’
‘Edwina Davis. I understand she was a senior county midwife. She was very well respected for her knowledge of general health issues.’
‘Why do you ask?’
‘She died under curious circumstances. The name Imber cropped up in some of her paperwork. It’s a very unusual name, so the chances are that it was you or someone from your family.’
‘Yes, we did know her. She became a sort of family friend some years ago.’
Barry noticed that she was more wary now. Anxiety had again taken the place of belligerence in her demeanour. Her eyes flickered over the two detectives. She’s seriously worried, he thought.
‘So how did that come about?’ Sophie asked.
‘She lodged here with us for a short while when she first came to the area. Then she moved to Dorchester, but we stayed in touch. Christmas cards and that kind of thing.’
‘So she wasn’t involved with your family on a professional basis in any way?’
‘Of course not. What are you suggesting?’
‘I’m not suggesting anything, Mrs Imber. I’m just asking questions.’
‘We’re a happy and loving family, if you must know. I love my children and they love me. Why would I ever need to refer to someone for advice?’
‘Someone outside
the family was worrying you, maybe? Taking an interest in Harriet?’
There was no response. Mary Imber took another sip of coffee and sat staring at her hands.
‘Now’s the time to tell me, Mrs Imber. Did you ever feel the need to ask Edwina Davis for advice, either officially or unofficially?’
Mary Imber stood up abruptly, her face flushed. ‘I must ask you to leave. You’ve caught me at a bad time and I’m feeling distinctly unwell. Please go.’
‘Of course, if that’s how you feel. I’ll leave you my card, so that you can phone me. Please do so soon, because I need to see you again.’
The two detectives left, their coffees hardly touched, and made their way to the car.
‘I hadn’t guessed, ma’am,’ Barry said.
‘Nor did I, until I was inside the house. Then it struck me. If Hattie was involved with that creepy organist as a fourteen- or fifteen-year-old, and they only realised what had been going on after his suicide, maybe they’d consult someone who could offer advice about such things. And if Eddie Davis was a family friend, who better? That’s why Eddie was so cagey about identifying Hattie in her diary. The whole thing had been hushed up, that’s my guess. After all, what would be the point of bringing it all up after he was dead? Maybe Eddie’s advice was to let sleeping dogs lie, although I would have thought that unlikely, given her background. Maybe that was the mother's decision.’
‘So it kind of makes sense now? Is that what you’re saying?’
Sophie shook her head. ‘There might be more. It might go further back than that. I think Hattie is maybe more damaged than we suspected. And did you spot the other thing? Mary Imber said that her husband is insured to drive the car. But he isn’t, not according to central records. It’s just her and Hattie.’
‘Could be a genuine mistake. It’s easy enough to forget details like that.’
‘Absolutely. But it’s odd that none of the family photos in the lounge showed a man. They were all of the mother and the two youngsters.’
Chapter 22: Demons
Rae visited the campus security director’s office first thing on Friday morning. She wanted to identify the spiky-haired student and find out more about her relationship with Hattie, then find out more about the staff members Hattie seemed to be embroiled with. But she’d need to tread carefully, as Sophie had warned her during their long telephone conversation at breakfast time. It was one thing to carry out a covert watch on a student, rather more sensitive if a visiting lecturer was involved, but one of the university’s most senior professors was a wholly different story. Sophie didn’t want to risk anything getting out, particularly since the nature and extent of Hattie Imber’s network of shady relationships was unknown. So Rae merely asked about the unknown fellow student. She imagined she would be on a similar course to Hattie’s, although that wasn’t certain. The fact that this friend might be foreign would help. She searched for Spanish, Italian and finally Greek students but got nowhere. Then she noticed that there was a Greek Society and found from the website that the current secretary looked a lot like Hattie’s friend. There she was. Maria Katsaros was studying economics and business, and had occupied the room next to Hattie during their first year. Maria’s fresher photo showed her with long hair but with the same gentle smile that Rae had noticed the previous day. Rae noted the relevant details about Maria, thanked the security chief and left. Investigations into the two staff members would have to be done elsewhere, possibly using online data.
Rae called Barry, then returned to her hotel room, dug out her laptop, and set about finding out all she could about Maria, Markham and Professor Murey.
Maria was clearly a very committed student. Rae read through her profile, and the long list of societies and groups that she belonged to, some as a committee member. The Feminist Society, the Drama Society, the LGBT group and a social support group for foreign students. The Film Society, the Swimming Club and the Tae Kwon Do Group. She had taken lead roles in several student drama productions and had still found time to volunteer as a coach in a self-defence class for women students. She was open about her lesbianism, and proud of it. According to her profile, she’d achieved marks in the top ten per cent in her first year exams, and was on course for a first-class degree.
Doctor George Markham had a one-year placement as a visiting lecturer under a Commonwealth exchange scheme, specialising in tall structure engineering. He was to remain in Exeter until the end of August, advising research students. He had little contact with the undergraduates. He listed his interests as walking, climbing and church organ music. Rae wondered whether it was his profile post that had sparked Hattie’s interest in him, though it was always possible that the university community hosted a group with that particular interest.
Professor Paul Murey was clearly very influential both within the university and beyond. He was in his early fifties, a graduate of Edinburgh and Cambridge and a specialist in the geography of landforms. In fact he was an international authority on the subject, judging from the list of conferences he was due to address during the current academic year. His interests included coastal walking, bird watching, photography and sketching. So where had he met Hattie? He claimed to be happily married, and his wife, Fiona, was a peripatetic music teacher. Now for Hattie herself . . .
Although my name is Harriet Imber, I prefer to be called Hattie. I think it reflects my personality better. I’m studying ancient history but I have many interests including church organ music, pencil sketching, clubbing and fashion. I can play church organ well enough for normal Sunday services, weddings and other services. I’ve set up a small society here at uni. It has six members. Contact me if you want to find out more. I love making friends so get in touch if you fancy meeting me, whether you’re male or female, or even in between. I’m not picky!
Rae noted that Hattie’s photo showed her with her new hairstyle. She’d obviously been very thorough earlier in the week, erasing any trace of her previous look. That was suspicious in itself. Rae could understand why she might want some of her photos updated, but the speed and thoroughness with which it had been done was surely suspicious. Did she suspect that she’d been spotted on the coast path that stormy Sunday morning? And was she concerned that she might be identified as the young woman seen arm in arm with Paterson on the campus of Bournemouth University?
* * *
Her phone told her a text message had arrived. It was now late morning and Rae was sipping a coffee in one of the cafés on the campus. The message was from Barry, telling her that Hattie Imber probably had a small, blue Ford somewhere in Exeter, and giving her the registration number. She put the phone down and thought. Students weren’t allowed to bring cars onto the campus, so anyone with a vehicle faced the problem of finding a long-term place to park. Parking wasn’t cheap, so where would a hard up student leave their car? Residential streets were the most likely bet. If she was so friendly with this visiting engineering lecturer, George Markham, could she have cadged his parking space? She thought back to the previous evening. Four flats, four parking spaces, four cars. Was it worth a look? Rae finished her drink, slipped her jacket on and left the café. She was soon outside the house she’d been watching the previous evening. There were two cars left in the parking area, one of which matched Barry’s description. She took out her phone and double checked the registration details. Yes, it was the Imber car. Judging from the dead leaves on the roof and bonnet, it must have been parked there for several days.
Rae then retraced her steps from the previous evening, returned to the house with the gravel driveway and made a note of the address. It wouldn’t take long to confirm who the occupier was. More important was to get to the bottom of whatever relationship existed between him and Hattie. The gravel-throwing incident had clearly been intended to intimidate. Did she have some kind of hold over him? If so, what was its nature?
She returned to the campus and sat thinking. A quick look at the local phone book confirmed that it had indeed been Murey
’s house that Hattie had visited after leaving Markham the night before. Clearly there was now some kind of friction between them. Why else would she fling gravel at his bedroom window and then leave?
Rae looked again at the dates of the conferences Murey had attended during the past year. The most recent was a weekend event in Cambridge in early October. Those dates seemed somehow familiar. She looked at the data she had on Hattie’s attendance record. She had missed all of that Friday’s lectures, tutorials and seminars. Coincidence? The website indicated that a local upmarket hotel had been block-booked for the delegates to stay in. Surely he wouldn’t have taken an unknown young woman to that hotel? So what would Murey have done? Book her into a different hotel? Another, more downmarket one? Rae decided to pay a visit to the county police headquarters.
‘I thought you said we wouldn’t see you again,’ said DS Steve Gulliver. ‘Not that I’m complaining. It’s always good to see a fresh face.’
‘I just need an official phone for a while, sir. Is that okay?’
‘Use mine. I can’t cope with modern technology anyway. Give me the pigeon post any day.’
Rae merely smiled politely, then spent the next twenty minutes tracking the room bookings for the weekend conference in October. Just as she had thought, there was no Imber. But she did discover that Professor Murey had stayed two nights, had a double room to himself and had left after the final conference lunch on Sunday afternoon. She asked the local Cambridge CID to help her identify nearby hotels. The manager of the Red Rose Hotel told her yes, a double room had been booked for Harriet Imber for the same two nights, and the reservation had been paid for in advance by a gentleman called Murey. So it looked as though the good professor had brought Hattie along as a night-time plaything during his conference. Well, well.
So what had been in that envelope, the one Hattie had slid under his office door the previous day, causing him obvious anxiety? Photographs, maybe? A demand for money? If so, was she putting herself at risk of harm?
Detective Sophie Allen Box Set 2 Page 60