‘You mean in this?’ She glanced down at the robe.
‘Yes. No, on second thoughts, without it.’ The tone was matter-of-fact; it was the artist who had spoken but the man looked suddenly confused as if afraid of having offended. Colour rose in his cheeks and she laughed.
‘You shocked yourself!’
He gave a rueful smile. ‘The fact is, I haven’t had many relationships with women,’ he admitted. ‘After Becky and the baby died I went off and buried myself in work for a long time. When I came back into the world I felt a bit like Rip Van Winkle . . . alienated.’
‘I think I know how you must have felt. I went through something similar once.’
‘You did?’ He poured milk into his coffee and stirred it; she was glad he made no attempt to pry. ‘What made you start writing thrillers?’ he asked after a pause.
‘My mother-in-law packed me off to creative writing classes because she thought I was getting broody and sorry for myself. I found I was quite good at crime short stories. Then a member of the CID came to live near us and I got to know him, he gave me an idea for a novel and it sort of took off from there.’
He frowned into his coffee mug, turning it restlessly between long, thin hands. The tips of his fingers flattened and the close-cut, oblong nails grew pale under the pressure.
‘Your mother-in-law? Are you . . . I assumed . . . that is, I didn’t realise you were still married,’ he said uncomfortably.
‘I’m not. Guy died many years ago.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Despite the conventional formula she thought he looked relieved. An affair with a married woman, even one long estranged from her husband, would have been deeply troubling to his sense of morality.
He put down his mug, picked up a knife and began drawing indentations on the tablecloth. ‘I suppose you know about police procedure?’ he said.
‘Yes, quite a bit.’
‘How long are they going to play this cat and mouse game with me?’
She stared at him, frowning. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I told you, they think I killed Angy . . . but they let me go.’ The tension was back, his voice jerky and staccato. ‘I suppose they’ll have me at the station again, asking those same awful questions until I break down and say what they want me to say. I’ve got no alibi for Tuesday evening. They think I’ve got motive, that I killed her in a jealous rage and only pretended to find her. I can’t prove I didn’t do it.’
‘You don’t have to,’ she pointed out. ‘They have to prove you did.’
‘They’ll think the baby was mine.’
‘There are tests that can settle that too. You’ve nothing to be afraid of if you’ve been telling the truth.’
‘If?’ He looked at her with a kind of shocked despair. ‘You don’t really believe me at all!’
‘But I do believe you.’ She crushed the seedling doubt into the depths of her mind. ‘And the police will eventually, when they’ve found the real killer. The investigation has only just started – there’ll be all sorts of leads to follow up.’ She made herself sound confident and well-informed, looking directly into his eyes. He looked back at her like a sick man in fear of death.
‘Now listen,’ she said, briskly ticking off points on her fingers. ‘First, they have to build up a picture of Angy . . . her background, family, close friends and so on. Then they check up on all the people she worked with, the other people living in the house, the students in her art class, neighbours who might have seen someone calling or leaving at about the time she was killed. There’ll be dozens of people they have to interview. You were the obvious starting point because you found her, but several of us have been questioned already, and fingerprinted. They sent a man to the college; even Miss Knott had to go through it. She hadn’t had a fag for at least half an hour and she was a nervous wreck when she was called in!’
Very slowly, he relaxed under the barrage of reassurance; at the end he even managed a weak laugh. ‘Poor old Knotty! I can just picture it!’
‘Try not to brood, and don’t let them rattle you.’ She was on the point of revealing that Chief Inspector Harris was a friend of hers – well, perhaps not a friend, more an acquaintance and an adviser – and that she might be able to find out what other leads he was following, but decided against it. Instead, she finished her coffee and got up to take her empty mug and cereal bowl to the sink. ‘Shall we wash up before we go?’
‘Don’t bother.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘We ought to leave now, if you’re sure you don’t mind?’
‘Of course not.’
Outside, Melissa stood for a moment with her key in the car door, looking back at the cottage. Last night, in the chilly darkness, it had appeared almost sinister; this morning it sat in its woodland clearing like something from a fairy tale, with round patches of lichen making golden platters on the sun-dappled roof. The neat patch of lawn was ringed with flowers and alive with starlings on the march for food.
‘It’s so pretty!’ she said. ‘Like the Three Bears’ cottage.’
Barney gave a wan smile. ‘At least this Father Bear didn’t gobble up Goldilocks!’ It was almost as if he had read, and understood, the fear that had been intermittently nagging at her mind. ‘Yes, it is lovely at this time of year.’ He settled into the passenger seat of the Golf and reached for the safety belt. ‘Not so much fun in winter when the track’s a quagmire. First thing I did when I moved in was buy a four-wheel-drive car.’ As if to ensure that no more disturbing topic was introduced, he continued to talk about cars until they reached the outskirts of Stowbridge.
‘Drop me here,’ he said as they joined the queue of traffic crawling towards the town centre. ‘I can cut across the park and you can turn off at the lights and go straight home.’
‘Right.’ She pulled into the kerb and he got out. Before closing the car door, he bent down and said:
‘Will you come again?’
She had prepared herself for the question – hoped for it, in fact – but at the last minute she restrained the impulse to reply with a joyful ‘Yes!’ Instead, she said carefully, ‘Maybe, when all this is over.’ He looked disappointed and she felt a twinge of regret, but the thing was done. It was better this way.
The minute she pulled up outside her own garage, the door of Elder Cottage flew open and Iris marched out, clasping Binkie in her arms. Her thin face was sharp with anxiety.
‘Where’ve you been?’ she demanded. ‘Saw you go off with that bearded fellow. Never saw you come back.’ She opened the garage and waited for Melissa to put the car away before resuming her harangue. ‘Banged on your door this morning but no answer. Your phone kept ringing last night. Worried sick, weren’t we, Binkie?’
She gave the imprisoned cat an affectionate squeeze to which he responded with a startled yowl. She bent and allowed him to slide from her arms to the ground, where he stood regarding the two women for a moment with unblinking eyes and twitching tail before disappearing through a gap in the hawthorn hedge.
‘Good boy, catch lots of mice for muvver!’ called Iris in her baby voice. She turned back to Melissa with an accusing look in her eyes. ‘You’ve been up to something! Want to tell?’
‘Oh Iris, it’s awful! Angy’s been murdered!’
‘Murdered? How?’
‘She was stabbed in the throat.’
‘Good Lord! Don’t tell me that young fool . . . no, I can’t believe that. When did it happen?’
‘The police think some time on Tuesday afternoon or evening, but her body wasn’t found until yesterday morning.’
‘Who found her?’
‘Barney Willard. He’s dreadfully shocked. I’ve told you how fond of her he was and on top of that he’s convinced they suspect him of killing her.’
‘The art lecturer? The oddball Sybil Bliss was talking about?’
‘He’s not an oddball!’ Instantly, Melissa realised that her too-quick, too-sharp response had been a mistake.
Iris pounced. ‘That was him you were with last night!
’
‘I had to take him home. He was too upset to drive his own car.’
‘And you stayed.’ Iris’s face was a jigsaw of emotions, all of them disapproving. ‘Spent the night with a man suspected of knifing his girlfriend! Need your head examined!’
‘She wasn’t his girlfriend. He thought of her as his daughter. Truly, Iris.’ Briefly, Melissa related the story. Iris listened in silence but her expression was wary and sceptical. ‘I didn’t intend to stay,’ Melissa insisted, ‘and I’m sure he didn’t plan it either. It just happened, and I’m glad it did. And he didn’t kill her, I know he didn’t!’ Who am I trying to convince, she asked herself, Iris or myself?
‘Hm.’ Iris was still unpersuaded. ‘So who d’you suppose did?’
‘I’ve no idea at the moment, but I have a hunch the police are going to find out things we never suspected about dear little Angy.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘Several reasons but I want time to think . . . and I must get some work done. That was probably Joe on the phone last night, wanting to know what’s happened to the script I promised him. Why don’t you come for supper this evening?’
‘Will do. What time?’
‘Say about seven.’
Melissa was on her way to her study when the telephone rang.
‘Gloucestershire Constabulary here,’ said a female voice. ‘I have Detective Chief Inspector Harris for you . . . you’re through.’
‘Melissa?’
‘Hullo Ken! What can I do for you?’
‘About the Caroli girl. I understand from Waters that you know something of her background.’
‘A little. I told him everything I could think of.’
‘I’d like to come round and see you. I think you may be able to help us further.’
‘If I can. When would you like to come?’
‘Now, if it’s convenient.’
‘Sure. I’ll be here.’
Ten
At first glance, it might have been thought that Detective Chief Inspector Kenneth Harris was squatting unsupported, like a meditative idol, in Melissa’s sitting-room. His broad frame almost concealed the small but sturdy upright chair – it had to be sturdy to support all that solidly-packed flesh and muscle – on which he sat. One red hand lay like an enormous starfish on his knee and the other held a notebook to which he referred from time to time while Melissa repeated her account of the sensational episode at the Ravenswood College of Art the previous July.
When she had finished he made a few amendments with a pen that looked as flimsy as a straw in his massive fingers, and said, ‘You’re sure it was in the throat that this fellow Lawrence slashed the picture?’
‘Quite sure.’
‘Did you know that Angelica Caroli died from a stab wound in the throat?’
‘Yes, I had heard.’ The episode that had at the time seemed melodramatic and ridiculous now took on the ominous quality of some ancient saga of vengeance. Yet surely, in real life, no one would be so utterly stupid . . .
Harris interrupted her train of thought. ‘Can you describe this fellow Lawrence?’
So they were considering Rick as a possible suspect. That could mean Barney’s fears were groundless . . .
‘I’ll do my best,’ she said, a shade too eagerly. ‘It was nearly a year ago and it all happened very quickly,’ she added, aware of the interest in the small, penetrating eyes that never left hers. It crossed her mind, as it had done before during their acquaintance, that anyone with a guilty secret would have to be pretty insensitive not to feel uncomfortable under that unwavering stare.
‘Just take your time,’ said Harris impassively.
Melissa put her hands over her eyes and sat for a few seconds in fierce concentration. Little by little she recalled the handsome young artist on the platform: receiving his trophy from Iris; kissing her hand and making her blush and simper; delivering his speech to the appreciative assembly; mutilating his creation before their eyes.
‘He wasn’t very tall. Five foot seven or eight perhaps and on the fleshy side – he’ll run to fat in a few years. I got a general impression of rather flamboyant, typically Italian good looks – dark eyes, olive skin, black hair.’
‘Long or short?’
‘His hair? Oh, quite short, with tight curls close to the head.’
‘Any beard or moustache?’
‘Definitely no beard. I don’t think he had a moustache . . . no, I’m pretty sure he was clean-shaven. He had a very . . . ’ she searched for the right word, ‘romantic sort of appearance. He could have modelled for a piece of Roman statuary.’
Harris took a sheet of paper from his briefcase and passed it to her. ‘Is that anything like him?’
Melissa studied the sketch with mounting excitement. ‘Yes! I don’t think the mouth is quite right but . . . yes, it looks very like Rick Lawrence.’
Questions boiled in her brain but she had the sense to wait, to allow Harris to release in his own good time whatever information he was prepared to give. He was a man who did not like to be pushed; the formula, ‘we ask the questions’, might have been coined expressly by him.
‘Two witnesses saw a man in the neighbourhood of the house where the victim lived at about six o’clock on the Tuesday evening,’ he said. ‘Our artist produced that sketch from their combined descriptions.’
‘Then it must be Rick Lawrence! He found out where she was living and came down here and stabbed her the way he stabbed her portrait!’ Keeping her voice level was not easy and she paid no heed to the voice of logic that asked whether anyone, even a jealous, fiery-tempered Latin, would do anything as obvious as that in cold blood.
‘“Found out”, you say.’ Once more, Harris broke into her thoughts. ‘Didn’t Lawrence know the girl was living in Stowbridge?’
‘She was afraid to let him know where she was. That’s why she never returned the ring – in case he managed to trace her.’
‘She told you she was afraid of him?’
‘Yes. She said he had a very hot temper. Looked at from his point of view, she had treated him rather badly but she saw herself as the victim of a family conspiracy to make her marry someone she didn’t love. She made it sound perfectly plausible. Incidentally, she kept referring to him as “Ricardo” and she seemed very proud of her Italian ancestry.’
‘When did she tell you all this?’
‘The first time I met her, the day I took my first writers’ workshop back in September.’
‘She confided in you on a first acquaintance?’
‘I recognised her from the portrait and expressed surprise at seeing her at the college. When she realised I’d witnessed the picture-slashing, and had met Lou Stacey, she chattered away as if we were old friends.’
‘Lou Stacey.’ Harris consulted his notes. ‘The girl you met at the prize-giving?’
‘That’s right. She and Angy were friends before all the upset over Rick. Lou had already told me the story of the so-called engagement but she put all the blame on Angy for the way she jilted Rick.’
Melissa looked again at the drawing, willing it to be the clue that would lead to the real killer and exonerate Barney. ‘It looks as if he managed to track her down, doesn’t it?’ she said, trying to sound matter-of-fact. ‘I wonder if he was hoping to win her back and knifed her when she refused him, or whether he intended all along to kill her out of revenge at the insult to his pride.’
Harris held out a hand for the drawing and returned it to his briefcase, giving no sign of having heard her speculative remarks.
‘So she left home, being especially careful not to let the rejected lover know where she’d gone. You suggested there might also have been a rift with her relatives in London?’
‘Lou said they were very upset but she was pretty sure it would blow over.’
‘That seems to have been the case. We found letters in Italian from an address in Chalk Farm signed “Aunt Rosina”; we had them translated and they’re quite a
ffectionate. Just general chat, though, nothing significant. According to neighbours, the aunt and uncle have been on holiday in Italy but they’re expected home tomorrow.’
So, thought Melissa, Angy had been lying to Barney when she told him she had no family in this country. She remembered the happy picture that Lou had somewhat acidly described: exuberant Uncle Vittorio and emotional Aunt Rosina rejoicing over the betrothal of their adored niece. Soon they would be asked to identify her body.
‘They’ll be heartbroken,’ she said sadly. ‘First the engagement falling through, then Angy leaving home . . . and now this.’
‘They were happy about the proposed marriage, then?’
‘Oh yes. They were involved in planning the party that caused all the trouble.’
‘So they might have hoped for a reconciliation?’
‘It’s possible. Perhaps Rick got Angy’s address from them.’
‘That’s something we have to check on. What about the Stacey girl? Would you say she was jealous of Angy?’
‘Not so much jealous as angry . . . on Rick’s behalf. She thought his life had been blighted for ever. You know how girls over-react at that age.’
‘So you could say Lou had a grudge against Angy?’
‘She certainly felt very strongly at the time,’ agreed Melissa, seeing in her mind’s eye a vision of the distracted girl, shoulders bowed, eyes streaming, nervous fingers tugging at her hair as she railed against her former friend. But surely not a murderess?
Aloud, she said, ‘That was last year. She’s had plenty of time to cool off.’
‘Presumably she could have got hold of Angy’s address?’
‘Quite easily, I should think. She was living with the Carolis.’
‘But she’d have been unlikely to encourage any further contact between Lawrence and Angy?’
‘I’d say it was the last thing she’d want.’
‘Hmm.’ Harris referred again to his notes. ‘According to Barnaby Willard’s statement, Angy claimed she had no relatives in this country. At the time, we hadn’t checked on next of kin but we now know it wasn’t true. Can you suggest any reason why she should lie to Willard?’
Murder in the Morning Page 8
