Death at Dearley Manor, page 13
part #2 of Sukey Reynolds Mystery Series
‘Paul is a human being, he’s someone I once loved and he’s the father of my son,’ she said at last. It was a struggle to keep back the tears. ‘He rang me yesterday evening, desperate for someone to talk to. He wanted to come to my house, but I wouldn’t let him because I didn’t want a scene in front of Fergus. He was scared out of his wits that he was going to be arrested and I tried to reassure him—’
‘On what grounds?’
‘On the grounds that I believe him when he tells me he didn’t kill Myrna.’
‘So you have already told me.’ Castle got up from his desk and began pacing to and fro, tossing a bunch of keys in the air and catching them, a habit of his when disturbed or baffled over a difficult case. Sukey watched him, wondering what was going through his head. Suddenly, he swung on his heel, returned to his desk and sat down. ‘You will write out a full statement for DCI Lord of what passed between you and Reynolds,’ he said curtly. ‘And from now on, you will stay out of this case completely, do you understand? Completely,’ he repeated. ‘That’s all. You can go.’
Sukey got to her feet and met his steely gaze with a hint of defiance. ‘I’ll include everything in my statement that’s relevant, but part of our conversation was personal,’ she said. ‘Sir,’ she added as an afterthought. For a split second, before she turned and left the room, something in his expression told her she had got past his guard.
Thirteen
The young doctor explained, as she slid a needle into a vein in Paul’s arm, that the purpose of the test was to establish what group he was in. He nodded, turning his head away to avoid the sight of his blood flowing into the glass phial. ‘It’s just the first step in the process of elimination,’ she explained chattily as she withdrew the needle and pressed a square of dressing onto the wound. ‘You’re looking a bit shaky,’ she went on, scrutinising him with a professional eye. ‘I advise you to wait for ten minutes or so before you leave. I’ll ask one of the officers to fetch you a cup of tea.’
‘No thanks, I’ll be all right,’ he assured her. The last thing he wanted was to remain in the police station for a moment longer than was necessary. ‘I have an important appointment – I mustn’t be late for it.’
‘I’m sure a few minutes won’t hurt.’ It was almost as if she was trying to delay his departure. He wondered what other nasty surprises lay in store for him that day. He rolled down his sleeve, his fingers fumbling with the button on the cuff. She was right, he was a bit shaky and it might give the wrong impression if he appeared too eager to get away. He put on his jacket and followed her outside; she had a quick word with a policewoman who nodded, showed him into a small room off the reception area and returned a few minutes later with a polystyrene cup of scalding tea. He sat there, turning it between his hands, trying to imagine what would happen next. He wasn’t under arrest, he told himself, just ‘helping with inquiries’. As soon as he’d drunk his tea, he was free to go. It tasted better than he expected and he had to admit the doctor had been right; by the time he finished it he felt a whole lot steadier. He put down the empty cup, opened the door and peered out. The desk sergeant, who was dealing patiently with an elderly woman’s vociferous complaint about a neighbour’s dog, took no notice of him as he walked past on his way to the exit. It was a relief to be out in the street again.
The lunch with Edward Barrington did a great deal to lift his spirits; the popular trainer was a genial, extrovert character with a hearty appetite for good food and drink and an inexhaustible fund of anecdotes from the world of horse-racing. More importantly, apart from the sporting pages, he seldom read a newspaper or showed interest in anything that did not directly concern his own affairs. If he had heard of the murder it was plain that it meant nothing to him. When Paul drove him home after a prolonged and lavish lunch at an exclusive country restaurant – when it came to keeping on the right side of important and wealthy clients, Turner and Clark were generous in the matter of expense accounts – Barrington had insisted on taking him on a tour of the stable yard and introducing him to his head lad, who proudly showed off the horses under his care, reciting from memory their pedigrees and track records with frequent interruptions from the proprietor, by that time in an almost unstoppably expansive mood. When Paul got back to his office it was almost five o’clock.
It came as no surprise when the receptionist informed him that the senior partner wanted to see him, but her next words sent a shiver down his spine. ‘He’s got two men with him, police detectives, arrived a few minutes ago. Maybe they’ve got some news.’ Her manner was sympathetic.
‘Thanks, Carrie, tell him I’ll be with him in a minute.’ It might be something to do with the blood test, he thought, then remembered that Radcliffe had told him a DNA test could take weeks and wondered uneasily what else the inquiries might have turned up. He left his briefcase in his own office and went to the toilet. As he was drying his hands, he caught a glimpse of himself in a mirror. He’d slept badly and it showed, but a good lunch had put some colour into his cheeks. He straightened his tie, smoothed his hair and went along to obey the summons.
Ernest Clark, silver-haired, dapper and bespectacled, greeted him in his usual affable manner as he entered. ‘Ah, there you are, Reynolds,’ he said. ‘Did the meeting with your client go well?’
‘Very well, thank you, sir. I’m afraid it went on a little longer than I anticipated—’
‘Never mind, never mind, you can tell me all about it later. Now, I think you’ve met these two gentlemen.’ He indicated DS Radcliffe and DC Hill, who had risen to their feet as Paul entered. ‘They’d like a few words with you and you can talk in here if you like. It’s quite all right, my boy,’ he went on as Paul murmured something inarticulate, ‘I want a word with Turner and we can just as easily talk in his office as in mine, so take your time.’ The old man paused at the door to say with a chuckle, ‘We’ve had a nice little chat – you’ll be pleased to know I’ve given you a good character reference.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ said Paul, trying to muster a smile.
‘Nice old gentleman,’ observed DC Hill as the door closed behind him. ‘One of the old school.’
Paul nodded. There was a pause, during which the detectives sat down again and indicated with a gesture that he should do the same. ‘Well,’ he asked impatiently, ‘is there any news?’
‘We haven’t made an arrest yet,’ said Radcliffe, ‘but there have been developments.’
‘What developments?’
The detective ignored the question. ‘Would you mind telling us where you were between nine o’clock and midnight yesterday?’ he asked.
Taken by surprise, Paul began to flounder. ‘I – I was in the flat where you saw me this morning, I spent the night there,’ he said nervously. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘You didn’t go out at all?’
He was on the point of denying it, then remembered the man with the dog he’d met on the way back. ‘I needed a breath of air, I went for a short walk, that’s all,’ he said after a pause.
‘Can you remember where you went?’
‘Through the woods behind the cottage – there’s a path leading to the village.’
‘In the dark? That was a bit unusual, wasn’t it? Most people stick to the roads if they go walking at night.’
‘I had a torch – and I knew my way.’
‘Perhaps you were going somewhere in particular? To see Mrs Willow, for example?’
‘Why would I go and see her?’
‘You tell me.’ Radcliffe leaned forward, his eyes locked on to Paul’s. ‘Did you see her?’
‘No!’ he almost shouted. ‘What are you driving at? Has something happened to her?’
‘Did you go to her cottage?’
Paul ran a tongue over lips that felt as dry as paper. ‘No,’ he repeated.
Radcliffe glanced at Hill, who consulted his notebook and said, ‘We have a witness who claims to have seen you returning from the direction of Mrs Willow’s cottage between nine thirty and nine forty-five yesterday evening.’
‘I didn’t see anyone – and I didn’t see Mrs Willow, she was out,’ Paul said desperately.
‘So you admit going to her cottage?’
‘All right, I did. I wanted to talk to her.’
‘What about?’
‘I heard she’d been saying she saw someone prowling about the night my wife was killed. She’s known to suffer from hallucinations and I thought, even if she did see someone, no one would believe her, but I wanted to make sure. I thought it was possible she might have—’
‘Might have seen a real person, maybe recognised them?’ said Radcliffe as Paul hesitated. ‘Maybe she saw the killer,’ he said softly. ‘Is that what you thought?’
‘Well, yes, I suppose so. She’s a nervous old lady, but she knows me and I thought, maybe it might help the investigation, maybe she’ll be more willing to talk to me than to the police.’
‘And did you see her?’
‘I’ve already told you, she was out, or maybe she was in bed asleep.’ Paul could feel his agitation rising by the minute and knew it must be showing. ‘I knocked, but there was no answer,’ he insisted. ‘Look, will you please tell me—’
‘Mrs Emily Willow was found dead at her home this afternoon, and we are treating the circumstances as suspicious,’ said Radcliffe. There was a short silence, during which Paul looked in terror from one detective to the other, reading accusation in their eyes. Then came the words that he had been dreading. ‘Paul Reynolds, I’m arresting you on suspicion of being implicated in the death of Emily Willow. You do not have to say anything…’
He sat in a bemused silence, listening to the formal caution. When it was finished he said, ‘I want to talk to a solicitor, please.’
The same evening – the second after the horrific death at Dearley Manor – June Ashton, wife of Bradley Ashton, Production Director at Maxford Domestic Fittings Limited, was drinking vodka and tonic and nibbling crisps in the sitting room of their comfortable, if a trifle down-at-heel, detached four-bedroomed home. The television was showing a news bulletin, but a threatened strike of airline pilots, squabbles over the progress of European monetary union and the fate of the English football team were of no interest to June and she allowed her mind to wander over her plans for improvements to the house – plans which had initially been thrown on the junk heap by the volte-face on the part of ‘that bloody woman’, but which might, with any luck, become a reality now the treacherous cow was out of the way. The savage nature of Myrna’s death caused June no disquiet; on the contrary, her first reaction had been that it was no more than she deserved. ‘I’d have done it myself if I’d thought of it,’ she told Bradley when he arrived home on Monday with the news.
Still hung-over from the previous evening, she had been taken aback at the mixture of anger and alarm in his expression as he retorted, ‘For God’s sake, don’t let anyone else hear you say that, especially after the exhibition you made of yourself last night.’
She recalled with a twinge of self-disgust her own behaviour on hearing Myrna Maxford’s announcement. She had made a fool of herself, no doubt about it, yelling hysterically, charging at the bitch and threatening her with a bottle, then losing all dignity by throwing up in the hall as Bradley dragged her out of the room. She’d passed out as soon as they got back home and she was still asleep when he left for the office the following morning. The memory, when she came to about midday, had added to the misery of the hangover and she’d been prepared for Bradley to have a real go at her when he came home.
Instead, having broken the news of the murder, he had gone on at length about how he and the others – Eric Dennison and Sam Perry – had agreed that nothing was to be said about how upset and disappointed they all were that the takeover wasn’t going ahead. If anyone asked, she was to say that it had been a pleasant evening and that they all understood the reasons for Myrna’s decision. It wouldn’t look good, he said, if the police found out how angry and upset they’d all been, and he’d finished up by saying, rather nastily, that she’d better stay off the booze in case she opened her big mouth once too often. That didn’t mean, she told herself as she slowly sipped her drink, that she couldn’t have just a small one – or maybe two – now and again. It wasn’t as if she had a serious problem.
She heard an approaching car and turned down the volume on the TV to listen; yes, that was Brad arriving home. There followed the familiar series of sounds: the metallic creak and click of the up-and-over garage door, the brief revving up of the engine as the car was driven inside, the clang as the door closed behind it. She wondered what sort of mood he was in. Although there had been no further direct reference to the episode with the bottle, the atmosphere between them had been on the cool side for the past forty-eight hours. She took another fortifying mouthful as the sitting-room door opened and he came in.
His first words were not encouraging. He made no response to her standard greeting of, ‘Hullo, darling, had a good day?’ but said curtly, his eyes on her glass, ‘I see you’re at the booze again. I thought we agreed—’
‘It’s only a small one,’ she assured him. It was perfectly true, but she could see he had his doubts. ‘I promised I’d cut it down and I have. It’s the first one today, truly.’
He gave a nod of approval, apparently convinced. ‘Well done, keep it up,’ he said. He even gave a brief smile. It was his smile that had bowled her over the first time she met him. His voice had fascinated her as well, faintly husky but with a touch of resonance. She used to boast to her friends, after she began dating him, of his ‘devastating’ smile and his ‘dark brown’ voice. Now and again she recalled those days, when old Grant Maxford was running the company and their lives were on an upward curve. Then, it seemed, things could only get better. That was before the old man’s death and his daughter took over. And before Bradley took a mistress.
She watched as he went over to a side-table where they kept the tray of drinks. He poured a tot of whisky and settled down on the sofa beside her. At fifty, he was still good-looking, his thatch of brown hair only lightly flecked with grey, his waistline trim from regular exercise, his skin healthy and comparatively unlined. He was, she had to admit, wearing better than she was. That morning after her shower she had taken a good look at herself in the full-length bedroom mirror and made a resolution – not the first, by any means, but this one she really intended to keep – to go on a crash diet, cut down the drink and tone up her figure with some regular exercise. It was important to get her act together, not lose her self-control again. She had made a start that very morning by signing on at a fitness centre; her muscles ached a bit after her first workout so she had allowed herself this one drink. Thank God, she hadn’t got to the stage where she needed professional help.
‘So what’s new in the world this evening?’ Bradley asked, sipping his Scotch with his eyes on the screen, where the announcer was reading the closing headlines.
‘Nothing much.’
‘Anything about the investigation?’
‘Not yet.’
He picked up the remote control and turned up the volume. A petite blonde with a toothy grin gave the weather forecast, promising heavy overnight rain and making stabbing gestures at a map of the British Isles drowning under a computerised deluge. ‘Driving conditions are likely to be difficult, so please take care,’ she admonished them with a cheery wave before signing off.
‘Wonder if they’ve caught Myrna’s killer,’ said Bradley as they sat through the commercials, waiting for the local news to begin.
‘Whoever it was did the world a service,’ muttered June, then added, ‘Just kidding,’ on seeing his frown of disapproval. She wondered how he would react when she dropped her bombshell. She allowed herself to savour it for a moment before the first headline had them gasping and exchanging glances of disbelief: A second suspicious death in Dearley village.
‘My God, whatever’s going on?’ she exclaimed as the other items were read out, ignored by them both.
He made an impatient gesture. ‘Be quiet and listen,’ he said.
The scene switched to an isolated cottage, cordoned off by blue-and-white tape and surrounded by police officers, one with a dog. A woman reporter described how the body of Mrs Emily Willow had been discovered by two callers at the cottage early that afternoon. ‘There was no sign of forced entry and the first indications seemed to suggest that the death could have been accidental,’ she said. ‘However, it now seems clear that police are treating it as suspicious, although they refuse to comment on a possible connection with the brutal murder two days ago of local businesswoman Myrna Maxford. They have, however, confirmed that a man has been helping with inquiries into that killing; his name hasn’t been revealed, but he is widely believed to be the first victim’s husband, Paul Reynolds.’
‘They can’t think he killed her!’ June exclaimed. ‘I only met them a few times, but he seemed devoted to her.’
‘Relationships aren’t always what they seem,’ said Bradley.
‘Too right,’ June agreed softly. This seemed a good moment. The camera cut to the next item, a strike at a local factory where workers were waving banners and shouting slogans in support of a sacked colleague. She turned the volume down again and said, ‘So many people have guilty secrets, don’t they? Shall we talk about yours, Bradley?’
He gave a start that sent the remains of his drink slopping to and fro in his glass and turned to look at her with a mixture of irritation and unease in his expression. ‘What the hell’s that supposed to mean?’ he snapped.
She settled herself more comfortably against the cushions and brushed an imaginary crumb from her skirt. Take your time, play it cool and watch him squirm, she told herself.
‘How’s Glenda Yates these days?’ she asked, keeping her tone deliberately casual, her head tilted on one side and her eyebrows lifted, the way she’d practised in the mirror. ‘Your bit on the side,’ she added as he gaped at her in dismay. He looked quite ridiculous; it was all she could do not to laugh aloud.
