by M. B. Shaw
Cant shook his hand.
‘Can I take your coat?’ asked Feeney.
‘Thank you.’ Cant shrugged out of his ugly black waterproof jacket.
‘Ariadne’s in the drawing room,’ said Feeney efficiently. He’d have made an excellent butler, Cant thought. ‘I’ll take you through.’
Ariadne Wetherby had looked unwell the first time DI Cant met her, but she looked immeasurably worse today. Her eyes were pink and puffy from crying, and her whole face seemed drooped and sunken with stress and lack of sleep. She was wearing a crumpled grey sweater and a pair of pink corduroy trousers that Cant suspected must have fitted her until recently, but now hung off her like a scarecrow’s rags.
‘Good morning, Mrs Wetherby.’ Cant offered his hand, but she seemed to miss the gesture, continuing to stare at the press outside with a glazed expression. Cant turned to Graham Feeney. ‘Perhaps you’d better draw the curtains. Just for now, while we have a chat.’
Graham nodded and did so, taking a seat on the sofa next to Ariadne. Resting a hand on her bony knee, he said, ‘The detective inspector needs to talk to you, Ariadne. Ask you some questions. Is that all right?’
‘Hmm?’ Ariadne looked up as if seeing both men for the first time. ‘Oh yes, of course. Did you talk to him about the funeral?’ she asked Graham.
‘We – the family – were hoping to hold the service next week,’ Graham explained to DI Cant. ‘Obviously it’s been a long wait for the body to be released, and Ariadne would like some closure. For the children’s sake, especially.’
‘Of course,’ Cant said kindly. ‘That’s no problem from our side. I’m sorry it’s taken so long to reach this point, Mrs Wetherby. But I want to assure you we will do everything in our power, everything, to find out who did this to your husband.’
‘Thank you.’ She was looking him in the eye, but there were no tears. No visible emotion of any kind, in fact. Instead, the glazed look was back. She was there and not there.
‘The first thing I’m going to need is everybody’s movements on Christmas Day,’ said Cant.
‘Our movements?’ Ariadne sounded surprised. ‘You mean the family’s?’
‘Well, yes, as a starting point.’
‘I don’t see how that’s going to help you find Dom’s killer.’ She was becoming agitated.
Graham Feeney placed a calming hand on her arm.
‘It’s just routine, Ariadne,’ he assured her.
‘You and your immediate family were the last people to see your husband alive, Mrs Wetherby,’ Cant explained, ‘and your son found the body. Piecing together a picture of that day, and perhaps the days prior, will provide crucial evidence.’
Ariadne stared at him in panicked silence.
Once again, Graham Feeney filled it. ‘If it would be useful, Detective Inspector, I could help Mrs Wetherby put down a timeline of Christmas Day on paper, what everyone was doing when and so on?’
Cant’s eyes narrowed. ‘What did you say you do again, Mr Feeney?’
‘I’m a barrister,’ Graham replied politely. He watched the policeman’s expression intensify, although whether Cant viewed this information as good or bad was hard to tell.
‘A timeline would be helpful,’ Cant said stiffly.
Ah, thought Graham. It’s bad. In Graham’s experience, a lot of police didn’t like lawyers, which was odd given that, as long as they weren’t corrupt, both professions were supposed to be on the same side, that of justice.
‘When do you last remember seeing your husband, Mrs Wetherby?’ Cant refocused his attention on Dom’s widow.
‘After the present-giving,’ said Ariadne, answering quickly and with certainty. ‘Dom put batteries into Lorcan’s toy boat and made sure it was working. Then he went out for a walk. Marcus went with him.’
‘What time was that?’
‘I’m not sure. Around three o’clock or a bit later?’
‘And did you see them leave the house?’
Ariadne frowned for a moment, trying to remember exactly. ‘I don’t think so. No. I went into the kitchen to start clearing up. Jenna was with the children and my dad, and Marcus and Dom went out for some air. But I didn’t actually see them leave.’
‘Your father was here that day?’ DI Cant was taking notes.
‘Yes. He always comes for Christmas,’ said Ariadne. ‘Is that important?’
Cant smiled, he hoped reassuringly. ‘All we’re trying to do is build a picture, Mrs Wetherby. Who was here, who wasn’t. Now, your son Billy, he was not at home that day, correct?’
Ariadne visibly stiffened. ‘Correct.’
‘He’d had an argument with your husband?’
‘No!’ Ariadne sat forward, suddenly insistent. ‘Who told you that? No. Billy had an argument with me, the day before, and he went to a friend’s house to cool off. He never argued with Dom.’
‘Never?’ DI Cant raised an eyebrow. But Ariadne doubled down.
‘Never. It was me Billy was angry with, not his father.’
‘All right. Well, I’ll need to speak to him, and your other sons.’ Ariadne looked as if she were on the brink of saying something, but then thought better of it. ‘I’ll leave you in peace shortly,’ DI Cant went on. ‘I realise all this must still be a terrible shock and I don’t want to overwhelm you. But I have to ask, Mrs Wetherby, did your husband have any enemies that you were aware of? Anyone who might hold a grudge against him, or want to do him harm?’
Ariadne shook her head vehemently. ‘Everybody loved Dom. Everybody.’
‘Perhaps in his business life?’
‘No,’ she insisted. ‘Dom would walk into a room and light it up, Detective Inspector. Ask anybody.’
‘There were tensions in the village, I understand? Some council members objected to your husband’s chairmanship?’
‘Well, yes.’ Ariadne looked pained. ‘Unfortunately, one can never completely escape envious people. The ones determined to dislike a man purely because he’s successful. But Dom was well liked, DI Cant. He was a wonderful husband and a wonderful man.’
‘I’m sure he was,’ Cant said diplomatically, getting to his feet. ‘Are any of your sons at home, Mrs Wetherby?’
Ariadne sighed. ‘Billy’s here somewhere.’
‘And your oldest son?’
She shook her head. ‘Marcus lives in London. I’m not expecting him now till the funeral.’
‘What about your youngest boy?’
Ariadne looked away sadly, unable to meet the detective’s eye. ‘Lorcan’s in his room,’ she said quietly. ‘He’s always in his room these days. I’m afraid it’s been a terrible shock for him.’
‘I’ll take you up there, Detective Inspector,’ Graham Feeney offered, getting helpfully to his feet.
‘That’s all right, sir,’ Cant said politely but firmly. ‘You stay with Mrs Wetherby. I’ll pop outside first and have my child liaison officer come and join me. I’m sure the two of us can find our own way.’
Cant couldn’t say why exactly, but there was something about the lawyer’s ever-helpful manner that he didn’t trust. Or maybe he just didn’t trust lawyers full stop. Either way, he wanted to interview each of Dom Wetherby’s sons in private and without an audience.
* * *
Lorcan Wetherby’s bedroom was a typical little boy’s room, only with a big boy in it. He had a bunk bed with a Scooby-Doo duvet cover, a floor littered with Lego and other toys, and walls plastered with cheap Blu-tacked posters of puppies and spaceships and cartoon characters, as well as photographs of family members. DI Cant and his liaison officer, the kind but inexperienced Sally, found Lorcan sitting on a beanbag, plugged in to his iPod and staring out at the waterwheel and river below through the elegant floor-to-ceiling sash window.
‘Hello.’ Cant tried to sound cheerful and unthreatening, then realised that the boy couldn’t hear him through the music. Tapping him on the shoulder, he tried again.
Lorcan turned round and took off his earphones.
‘I’m a policeman,’ said Cant, sitting down next to him and wishing he had more experience – any experience – of people with Lorcan’s condition. ‘And Sally here’s a policewoman.’
‘OK,’ Lorcan said blankly.
‘Do you know what that means?’
Lorcan looked from Sally to Cant and nodded. ‘Catch baddies,’ he said, seriously.
‘That’s right,’ Sally jumped in. ‘DI Cant and I catch baddies. Would it be all right if we asked you some questions, Lorcan?’
Lorcan shrugged. He didn’t look happy, but Cant pressed on.
‘Do you know why I’m here?’ he asked.
The boy shifted uncomfortably on the bag. ‘Dad?’
‘That’s right. I’m here about your dad.’
‘Hair,’ Lorcan mumbled. He was starting to sound increasingly distressed. ‘The boat got stuck!’
‘Take your time. We know it’s hard to talk about,’ Sally said kindly, earning herself a ‘back off’ look from her boss.
‘You were the one who found the body,’ Cant resumed bluntly. He felt as sorry for Lorcan Wetherby as the next person, but they had a murder to solve.
‘It wasn’t me!’ Lorcan’s voice was rising. He stood up, panicked.
‘No one’s accusing you of anything.’ Cant tried to sound reassuring.
‘It was the ghost! I saw the ghost!’
The boy was rambling wildly now, but Cant jotted the word down anyway: ‘Ghost.’
‘What ghost was this, Lorcan?’
‘White ghost. By the water!’
Billy Wetherby suddenly appeared in the bedroom doorway in tracksuit bottoms and an Eton College hoodie. Elbowing past Sally, he squared up to Cant with a belligerent glare. ‘What’s going on in here?’
Cant took in Billy’s appearance. He had the same hollow-eyed, brooding good looks that the detective remembered from their first meeting, two weeks earlier, although something seemed to have changed about Billy since that encounter. His cheeks looked fuller, his clothes cleaner and his general demeanour healthier and more confident, despite his obvious anger.
‘What do you think you’re doing, upsetting my brother?’ he demanded, putting a protective hand on Lorcan’s shoulder.
‘We need to ask Lorcan a couple of questions, sir,’ Cant replied calmly.
‘Why?’ Billy retorted, eyeing first Sally and then Cant disdainfully. ‘Nothing my brother tells you will stand up in court. He’s non compos mentis, Detective Inspector. Or hadn’t you noticed?’
Sally blushed, but Cant looked at Billy poker-faced. He was thinking how odd it was to be considering what would or wouldn’t ‘stand up in court’, versus what might help catch their father’s killer.
‘Lorcan’s a key witness,’ Cant replied patiently. ‘And this is a murder inquiry. He might have seen something.’
Turning away from them both, Billy ruffled Lorcan’s hair affectionately, as one might pet a dog. The boy seemed comforted by the gesture, smiling up at his brother with relief before putting his headphones back on.
Cant contemplated arguing the point and insisting on resuming his interview with Lorcan, but instead decided this was as good an opportunity as any to ask Billy some questions. Jump in and catch him unawares, before he had time to rehearse his responses.
After sending Sally back to the car, he asked Billy what he knew about Dom’s movements on Christmas Day, or the days leading up to it. ‘Is there anything you can think of that might be relevant?’
‘Such as what?’ Billy leaned one shoulder against the wall, affecting a look of profound boredom and looking every inch the spoilt public schoolboy, especially in that hoodie. ‘As you know, I wasn’t here when it happened. Drunk and disorderly in a hospital waiting room, I’m afraid.’ He leered, looking anything but afraid.
‘Did your father have any enemies?’ Cant asked, trying not to let it show on his face how much he disliked this sulky, poisonous young man.
Billy laughed loudly. ‘You’d better sharpen your pencil, old boy. How long have you got? Dad’s enemies … let me see. There were the villagers he belittled. That’s a long list in itself. Then there were the writers and producers he stiffed on Grimshaw over the years. You’ll want to talk to them. The spurned mistresses. Are you getting all this?’
He thinks this is a game, Cant thought, disgusted. But he was professional enough not to rise to Billy’s taunting, or to interrupt his flow.
‘The most recent was that dumb bint Rachel Truebridge. She turned up at the Christmas Eve party off her tits apparently, embarrassing herself and poor old Dad. And he clearly had his eye on his portrait painter, Iris Grey. No doubt you’ve met Iris. She’s renting the cottage. I can’t say if she’d reached the point of wanting to drown him yet, but I’m sure she would have eventually.’ Noticing the detective’s obvious distaste, Billy’s smile broadened. ‘You don’t appreciate my sense of humour, Detective Inspector? That’s all right. Not many people do. Now, where was I? Oh yes, Dad’s enemies. Well, there’s my mother, of course. I’m sure I don’t need to tell a man of your intellectual insight not to be fooled by Ariadne’s sweet, saintly, artistic exterior. She hated my father. Hated his lies, his affairs, his success, hated that everybody loved him. I don’t suppose she thought to mention that she has a shed full of chloroform out in our woods?’
‘What are you talking about?’ Cant was beginning to lose his temper.
Billy explained about Ariadne’s sculpting shed and how she used drugs to gas and subdue animals she wanted to sculpt. ‘Other sculptors use carcasses, but not Mum. She likes the control of having the animal alive but powerless. Totally at her mercy. Creepy, isn’t it?’
Cant said nothing. It was a bit creepy, but nothing compared to Billy.
‘Is the shed locked?’ he asked.
‘No idea.’ Billy yawned. ‘I doubt it, but Mum would know. In any case, if Dad had chloroform in his system, you can bet that was where it came from. See how helpful I’m being, Detective Inspector? I believe that’s what you call a “lead”.’
‘And you, Mr Wetherby. How did you feel about your father?’
Billy cracked his knuckles, a look of wry amusement creeping back over his face. Glancing to make sure that Lorcan was completely tuned out, he leaned forward and stage-whispered, ‘Oh, I hated him, Detective Inspector. It could have been me! Could have been any of us. Did you know, as children, he used to play “no escaping” games with Marcus and me, where we’d tie weights to our feet in our swimming pool in France and then have to try and swim up to the surface? Dad called it “Houdini”. We used to beg him to play it with us. We loved the adrenaline, you see. That and knowing we were pleasing him. Everyone always wanted to please my father, Detective Inspector.’
Not everyone, thought Cant. Not in the end.
‘Of course, Mother hated the game. She banned it. Used to scream at Dad for being “wildly irresponsible”. But Dad just ignored her. He did stop in the end, but that was because of Lorcan.’ Billy looked down at his brother with affection. ‘He freaked out one time. Panicked. He almost drowned. That was the end of the Houdini game. Well’ – Billy raised an eyebrow ironically – ‘almost the end. So you see, Detective Inspector, it could have been any one of us who finally did for Dad. Or any one of a hundred other people burned by the great Dominic Wetherby. I wish you all the best in unravelling the mystery and bringing his killer to justice, but I’m afraid you’ll be spending a good deal of time chasing your tail. And I do so hate to see police time being wasted.’
Cant gave him a look that would have turned a lesser man to stone.
‘Don’t leave Hazelford without letting us know, Mr Wetherby. We’ll need to talk to you again.’
‘Leave Hazelford?’ Billy mocked. ‘Heaven forbid. Why would anybody want to do that?’
* * *
Outside, Cant collared his sergeant.
‘Call forensics. There’s a
shed in the woods over there.’ He pointed down towards the river. ‘Mrs Wetherby uses it for sculpting. Apparently she has a supply of chloroform in there.’
Sergeant Trotter looked puzzled.
‘Don’t ask,’ said Cant. ‘And don’t go in or touch anything till forensics have checked it out.’
‘Sir.’
‘I’m nipping over to the cottage.’ Cant nodded towards Mill Cottage, where a thin stream of grey smoke was winding its way up from the chimney into the chill winter sky. ‘Ms Grey’s our last witness for today.’
* * *
Iris saw DI Cant making his way towards her cottage from the kitchen window. Like the rest of the world, she’d heard the news this morning, about Dom Wetherby’s death being reclassified as murder. Not before time, had been her first thought. Her second thought was not so much who, or why, but how had a killer managed to subdue a big man like Dom, weight him down and dump him in the Itchen on Christmas Day and within yards of scores of possible witnesses? There were still far too many unanswered questions, and Iris couldn’t help but wonder whether the baby-faced DI Cant was really the right man to answer them. She’d only met him once, but Cant had seemed both young and plodding, quite lacking in the insights and instincts that helped one look deeper into human nature, and the dark heart within us all.
Five minutes later, sitting opposite Cant at her kitchen table to give an impromptu witness statement, Iris saw nothing about the detective inspector to change her mind. His questions were routine – how long had she known Dom? When had she last seen him? What had her own movements been on Christmas Day, and had she noticed anything unusual in the days prior? That much was understandable. But the utter lack of curiosity, the apparent boredom with which Cant noted down her answers, never pressing or challenging or once asking her to elaborate, left Iris with the strong impression that he was merely going through the motions. Poor Dom deserved better.
After providing DI Cant with a detailed description of the Wetherbys’ Christmas Eve party, including her own perceptions of the Rachel Truebridge ‘incident’, Iris had some questions of her own.
‘I understand he was drugged, that you found high levels of chloroform in his blood?’
