Outside, it was still raining hard and they made a dash for the car, flung themselves in. All the windows were steamed up, giving the illusion of total privacy and isolation.
‘Well?’ said Lineham. ‘Any luck?’
‘Some.’ Thanet glanced at Lineham’s impatient face and grinned. He knew the sergeant hated being kept in the dark.
‘There were two interesting points. One: Nicky heard Daphne Linacre’s car arrive at twenty to five. He was playing in his den, in the garden, and didn’t actually see her at that point. Five minutes later, at a quarter to five, his mother called him in for tea, but he was busy doing something and didn’t actually go in for another five minutes or so. But when he did, he saw Daphne Linacre going into the coach house. He assumed she’d left something in her car, and had gone out to fetch it, and of course, there might be some perfectly innocent explanation, but …’
‘She gave us the impression she was so prostrated by migraine that she could scarcely totter up the stairs to bed!’
‘Precisely. And if she did have a migraine I can’t see her running any trivial errands herself. It seemed to me that Miss Haywood was only too willing to be at her beck and call.’
‘I agree … Yes, that is interesting. What was the other thing?’
Thanet related what Nicky had told him about Damon.
‘I wonder why he went across to the coach house? Sir, you don’t think …’
Thanet recognised the dawning sparkle in Lineham’s eyes. A theory was being born. ‘What?’
“Well, you know what you were saying about Damon disappearing because he wanted to protect someone? And one of the people you thought he might have wanted to protect was his aunt? Just suppose that earlier, soon after Daphne Linacre got home, he overheard a quarrel between her and his mother? And that for whatever reason he decided to go and see his mother half an hour later? He goes into her room, finds it empty, and walks out onto the balcony, calling her. She’s not there, but he crosses to the rail to see if she’s in the garden and sees her lying on the terrace. He rushes down, finds that she’s stone dead and comes to the conclusion his aunt must have shoved her over during the quarrel. He’s very shocked, naturally, and he goes straight across to the coach house, to tackle her. But Miss Haywood says his aunt is ill, she’s got a severe migraine, and can’t be disturbed. He doesn’t know what to do, so when he comes out he’s in a bit of a daze, walking slowly, as Nicky said. Then, on the way back to the house, he makes up his mind. If his aunt has killed his mother he doesn’t want to be any part of the uproar that’s bound to follow. He’ll keep well out of the way for a few days until the fuss has died down. He rushes up to his flat, throws a few things in a bag and takes off.’
Lineham folded his arms and sat back with an air of satisfaction. ‘What d’you think, sir?’
‘Could be. Of course, he could have gone across to the coach house for a dozen different reasons, none of them anything to do with the murder: he could have wanted to confirm an arrangement, borrow some money, return a book, ask a favour … He might simply have wondered why his aunt was home from work so early, gone across out of curiosity.’
‘You’ll be suggesting he went across to take afternoon tea with them, next. Sir.’
‘No need to be sarcastic, Mike. It could well have been as innocent as that. They were on pretty good terms. Look at the way she and Mrs Haywood keep ringing up to enquire about him.’
‘And I suppose he only stayed a minute or two because Miss Haywood was busy looking after Miss Linacre and wouldn’t have had time to talk to him.’
‘Quite.’ Thanet enjoyed baiting Lineham occasionally. ‘Actually …’
‘What?’
‘Well, let’s say, for the sake of argument, that it did happen as you suggest, that the two sisters had a quarrel which got out of hand … I suppose that the strain and the shock might well have brought on a genuine migraine – or the beginnings of one, anyway, by the time Damon went across, half an hour later.’
‘If you ask me, she never had one at all.’
‘And the vomiting we heard from upstairs, when we went across that first evening?’
‘Emotional reaction,’ said Lineham triumphantly. ‘From having committed a murder.’
‘There’s still something you haven’t explained, in this neat little theory of yours, Mike.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Motive, Mike, motive. Why, in the middle of a sunny June afternoon, should Daphne Linacre suddenly rush home from work and kill her sister? Any suggestions?’
‘I’m sure I can come up with something, given time.’
‘I’ve got a better idea than that.’
‘What?’
‘We’ll go across to the coach house and ask her.’
TWENTY
Daphne Linacre answered the door herself.
‘You’ve got news of Damon?’ she said, apprehensively.
Without her sunglasses she looked older, perhaps more vulnerable, Thanet thought. Her eyes were a bleak pebble-grey, flecked with brown. Once again she was smartly dressed in crisp cream linen skirt and matching blouse, with a soft, caramel-coloured cardigan slung loosely around her shoulders.
Thanet shook his head. ‘Sorry, no. We’d like another word with you, if we may.’
She stood back without a word, silently waiting while they removed their dripping raincoats.
‘You can hang them there.’ She nodded at a row of hooks behind the front door. Then she led them into the sitting room.
Sunday newspapers were scattered around the armchair in which she had sat last time they were here, and a half-empty cup of coffee stood on a small table nearby.
‘I’ve been having a lazy time, as you can see. Nothing much else to do on a morning like this. Do sit down. Would you like some coffee?’
‘We’ve just had some, thanks.’
Where was Beatrix Haywood? Thanet wondered.
As if she had picked up his unspoken thought Daphne Linacre said, ‘Bea’s at church. I told her she was crazy to go out in this weather if she didn’t have to, but she insisted.’
Her concern evidently hadn’t extended to offering Mrs Haywood a lift, Thanet thought.
‘Well, how can I help you?’
‘A minor point,’ said Thanet. ‘A small discrepancy. We thought you could clear it up.’
Despite his dramatic announcement to Lineham that they would go and ask Daphne Linacre why she might have killed her sister, Thanet was well aware that it would be pointless to do so. She would simply deny it, or laugh it off, as she had last time. And they would have revealed more than they wished of their suspicions.
She smiled. ‘Oh dear, the third degree. What have I done, I ask myself? Do go on.’
‘Perhaps you could bear with us and tell us once more exactly what you did when you got home on Thursday afternoon.’
She gave him an assessing look. ‘Why should I? I’ve been through it once, that should be enough, surely.’
Thanet sighed. ‘Often, when people have had time to think, they remember details they forgot the first time around. It’s understandable. Nobody thinks very clearly, in a state of shock.’
There, he had given her a way out, if she needed one. Would she take it?
Apparently not.
‘I’m afraid I have nothing to add.’ Then, noting his waiting silence she said irritably, ‘Oh, very well, then, if I must. I came home from work with a migraine. When I got here all I wanted to do was go upstairs, undress and lie down in a darkened room. Which was precisely what I did.’
‘You came through the door and went straight up the stairs?’
‘Got it in one, Inspector.’
‘You’re sure you didn’t, for instance, talk to Mrs Haywood for a minute or two?’ Thanet persisted.
‘No.’
‘Or go into the kitchen, for a drink of water, perhaps?’
‘No, I did not! Look, when I drove up Bea was waiting at the door. She knew I was feeling ill, we’d spoken on the t
elephone earlier. She helped me up the stairs. I went to the bathroom to pee – if we must have the sordid details – then into my bedroom, where I undressed, got into bed and closed my eyes with a huge sigh of relief. Does that satisfy you?’
‘According to a witness you were seen entering this house some ten minutes after you got home.’
She raised one eyebrow and said with amusement, ‘Really? Well, all I can say is, he’s either mistaken – to put the charitable interpretation on it – or he’s lying in his teeth. And if it’s the latter, I should say his motives require investigation, Inspector.’
‘You deny it, then.’
‘I certainly do! Surely I can’t spell it out any more clearly than I already have!’ She folded her hands and cracked her knuckles, a habit which Thanet had always abhorred. But he refused to allow himself to be distracted. He was trying to make up his mind if she was lying. Sometimes it was easy to tell – a facial expression, a false note in the voice, certain gestures such as rubbing the side of the nose, but at others it is well-nigh impossible and this, he decided reluctantly, was one of those occasions. Daphne Linacre met his gaze stare for stare and it was obvious that nothing was going to make her change her story in even the slightest detail.
He was certain that Nicky hadn’t been lying, but was it possible that the boy had been mistaken? Thanet didn’t think so. But there was no way at present to prove or disprove his story.
They would have to leave it there.
‘Very well.’ He stood up. ‘But if you should suddenly recall …’
‘I shan’t.’ The extent of her resentment showed in the sudden surge of energy with which she swung herself up out of her chair. ‘Who is this … informant, anyway? I have a right to know, don’t you agree?’
Thanet shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t tell you that.’ The last thing Thanet wanted was to expose Nicky to ill will.
‘Then there’s nothing more to be said.’
Back in the car Thanet looked at Lineham and grinned. ‘Well? Still as keen on your latest theory?’
The sergeant grimaced. ‘I still think it could have happened like that.’
‘That’s the trouble with this case, Mike, there are too many credible possibilities, too many suspects with means, motive, opportunity, and no way at present of proving anything against any of them.’
‘Miss Linacre doesn’t seem to have a motive, as you so rightly pointed out. And as far as she’s concerned we keep coming up against the same old question: why on earth should she suddenly decide to come home from work one afternoon and kill her sister?’
‘If she did do it, something must have happened, to make her. But what?’
‘And why? What possible reason could she have?’
What possible reason?
The windows had misted up again and Thanet stretched out a finger and absentmindedly cleared a small space on the glass. A small cameo appeared, of a young beech tree, its fresh green summer foliage drooping with the weight of unshed water. Something flickered at the back of Thanet’s mind. What was it? He cleared a little more space on the glass, his finger switching from a circular movement to straight lines. The picture was larger now, revealing a rose-bed encircled by grass and a line of trees in the background, their tossing, heaving branches a mass of greens in every shade and tone.
Again there was that flicker at the back of his mind.
This time the sensation was unmistakable. Thanet had experienced it before, not frequently, but sufficiently often for him to recognise it when it happened. His unconscious mind had, quite independently, been sifting, weighing, sorting, assessing, and had come up with a conclusion of its own. It was now in the process of passing it on, up through the layers of his consciousness to the point where he was able to acknowledge it. He closed his eyes and sat quite still, trying to blank out the sound of the rain drumming on the roof, the awareness of Lineham tactfully silent in the seat beside him … He had a brief, vivid image of the picture he had seen through the window just now, and then, without warning, he was seeing another picture, himself and Ben, in the photograph he had held last night – and then another, and another … Illumination came, bringing elation and a sense of triumph. Already, in his dream last night, he had made the connection … His eyes snapped open.
Lineham was watching him eagerly.
‘Of course, Mike!’
‘What?’
‘Her motive. Daphne Linacre’s motive. I think I’ve got it!’
‘Well, are you going to tell me or not?’
‘Naturally.’
Thanet explained, enjoying the dawning comprehension in Lineham’s face. He had just finished when his bleeper went.
‘There’s a phone box near the village hall,’ said Lineham.
It was a message from Joan. She’d had an idea where Damon might be and had decided to follow it up herself. She had taken the children to her mother’s for the day.
‘Did she say where she was going?’
‘No, sir. It can’t be too far away, though. She said that all being well she hoped to be back by mid-afternoon.’
All being well.
‘She said it was a long shot, sir, but that if she found him and managed to persuade him to come back with her, they’d go straight to your office. She said not to raise your hopes too high, though.’
Thanet looked at his watch. Eleven o’clock.
At least four hours to go, then.
TWENTY-ONE
Thanet glanced at his watch. Twenty to four. Only three minutes had passed since the last time he looked. Time was crawling along so slowly it seemed virtually to have stopped.
Where was she?
His eagerness to talk to Damon was overshadowed by his anxiety about his wife. He knew that this was irrational, that Joan spent much of her working life dealing with criminals of every kind, but he didn’t like not knowing where she had gone or what sort of a situation she might have walked into.
It was impossible to concentrate, and he tossed the papers he had been pretending to study onto his desk and got up, walked restlessly across to the window. The rain had stopped about an hour ago and the cloud ceiling was breaking up, the first patches of blue sky appearing.
‘We should hear something soon, sir.’
Thanet gave a tight nod.
‘In fact, I’d say it was looking quite hopeful. If she’d had a fruitless journey she’d have been back by now.’
‘We can’t say that if we don’t know where she’s gone.’
‘No, but she did say mid-afternoon. She must have had some idea of how long it would take.’
‘Mid-afternoon is so vague. It could mean anything, from two thirty to four thirty.’
‘Even if it meant four thirty, at the outside, if she hasn’t managed to find him we should hear from her before long. In that case she’d probably go straight back to your mother-in-law’s and ring from there.’
‘I imagine so. There’d be no point in coming here if she hadn’t had any luck.’
‘But if she did manage to find him, we might have to wait a good while longer. It could take some time to persuade him to come back with her.’
‘Impossible to tell.’ Thanet swung away from the window and returned to his desk. He picked up a report, riffled through it, put it down. His hand strayed to his pocket and came out holding his pipe. He didn’t usually smoke in the middle of the afternoon but he felt that the occasion warranted a relaxation of the rules.
Lineham watched resignedly as Thanet filled his pipe and got it going.
‘Anyway, she must have thought there was a good chance of finding him, sir, or she wouldn’t have gone off like that.’
‘True. Though she did say it was a long shot.’
They were going around in circles. Thanet stood up. ‘Come on, Mike. There’s no point in sitting around speculating like this. A change of scene will do us good. Let’s go up to the canteen and have some tea. We can easily be contacted there.’
They were
carrying the cups across to a table when the message came through.
‘I’ve been told to tell you your wife has arrived, sir.’
Relief was sweet. ‘Is she by herself?’
‘I don’t know, sir. I haven’t actually seen her.’
‘Where is she? Downstairs?’
‘Yes, in the entrance hall. Shall I bring her up to your office?’
‘No, I’ll go down myself.’
Thanet sent Lineham back upstairs and went down alone. Outside the glass doors leading into the entrance hall he paused for a moment. Joan hadn’t seen him yet. She looked tired. She was sitting with her eyes closed, leaning her head back against the wall. There was a young man beside her whom Thanet recognised immediately from the photographs released to the media. So she had brought it off. He experienced an uprush of pride and excitement. Damon, too, looked tired. He was sitting forward, elbows on both knees, clasped hands dangling loosely between.
Thanet pushed open the door and entered the hall. Damon must have seen him heading towards them and stirred because Joan opened her eyes. She smiled up at him.
‘Ah, there you are. This is Damon Tarrant. Damon, my husband, Detective-Inspector Thanet.’
Damon nodded but did not respond to Thanet’s smile. His photograph hadn’t done him justice. His resemblance to his mother was striking, her dark beauty translated here into masculine planes and angles. He looked strained, apprehensive and slightly dazed.
Thanet wondered if Damon had indeed learnt of his mother’s death only a few hours ago. If so he must still be in a state of shock.
‘Damon would like to make a statement,’ said Joan.
‘Good.’ He looked at the boy. ‘But are you sure you’re up to it?’
Damon glanced at Joan, who said, ‘You could leave it until tomorrow, you know.’
The boy shook his head. ‘I’d only lie awake all night worrying about it. I’d rather get it over with.’
‘All right. We’ll go up to my office, then, shall we?’ His office would be less impersonal than an interview room. ‘This way.’
Joan rose too, but Damon said, ‘There’s no need for you to come, Mrs Thanet.’
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