Hazel Clews, thought Clayton, could never understand that Mrs Knott’s one desire at that moment of shock would have been to avoid any sort of a scene because the Knotts did not have scenes. ‘Which restaurant did this happen in?’
‘I can’t remember.’
‘Try harder.’
‘I tell you, I can’t remember. I never bothered where he took me. If we didn’t go up to London, we went miles and miles to keep out of his wife’s way. It could’ve been anywhere.’
‘Did he ever say what happened when he got home that night?’
‘She rowed him and tried to find out who I was.’ Her voice became scornful. ‘He tried to tell her I was just the daughter of an old school friend of his. The old fool thought she’d believe him.’
‘What makes you so certain that she didn’t?’
‘Because she came snooping to find out where I work.’
‘When?’
‘Just recent. I was in the shop, doing some flowers, and turns round and there she was, peering through the window and looking like an ugly old witch.’
‘What day was this?’
She drew on the cigarette, then threw it into the fireplace. ‘It must’ve been Monday.’
‘Last Monday?’
‘Yes.’
‘How can you be certain of that?’
‘It was the same day Alf came in to have a word with me and the old bitch of a manageress started shouting because of him.’
‘What did Mrs Knott do once she’d seen you?’
‘Gawd knows! Had a fit, like as not.’
‘Why d’you say that?’
‘That’s how she looked — all twisted up.’
‘Did you try to speak to her?’
‘I ain’t that stupid.’
Clayton thought for a few moments, then said: ‘Thanks very much, Miss Clews. Would you like to go and ask Mr Shear to come in here now?’
She spoke loudly. ‘This is my house, you know.’
‘Of course. But you’re being so helpful I’m sure you won’t mind helping us that little bit longer by letting us have a word or two with Mr Shear in here,’
She hesitated, then left the room.
When Shear entered, he walked straight over to one of the chairs, sat down, and spread out his feet. His mouth, thick-lipped and sensuous yet at the same time hard, expressed scornful contempt.
‘Have you known Miss Clews for long?’ asked Clayton.
‘What’s it to you?’ demanded Shear.
‘I’d like to know.’
‘Why?’
‘To help me in my investigations into the murder of Daniel Knott.’
‘D’you think I croaked the old bastard?’
‘Did you?’
‘Never met him.’
Then there can’t be any harm in answering my questions.’
Shear put his shoes up on the arm of the settee. ‘I ain’t got much more time to waste.’
‘Nor have I,’ said Clayton, with undiminished good humour, ‘so we’ll get down to the essentials. Where were you last Monday?’
‘What’s up? Someone nicked half a dollar from a gas-meter?’
‘Last Monday, Daniel Knott was murdered by shooting.’
‘It’s one way of dying.’
‘Did you shoot him?’
‘No.’
‘Then let’s hear where you were between midday and four in the afternoon?’
‘In Trighton.’
‘Can you prove that?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Then go ahead.’
‘Me and Hazel had a drink in a pub.’
‘What time?’
‘I wasn’t watching the clock.’
‘Try guessing.’
‘It was just after she’d come out of the shop. She leaves that at half twelve.’
‘How long were you in the pub?’
‘Long enough.’
‘How long in time?’
‘Something over half an hour.’
‘The name of the pub?’
‘The Admiral’s Head.’
‘Where did you go from there?’
‘We came back here.’
‘Why?’
‘Don’t be so bloody daft.’
‘Were her parents in the house?’
‘No.’
‘When did you leave here?’
‘When it was time for her to go back to the shop.’
‘What did you do after she’d returned to the shop?’
‘Had a wander round town.’
‘Doing what?’
‘Wandering.’
‘When did you next see Miss Clews?’
‘When I chatted her in the shop.’
‘What time was that?’
‘How should I know? I ain’t no time-clock.’
‘Have another guess.’
‘It was something after three.’
‘Right, thanks very much.’ Clayton stood up.
Shear, sprawled out in the chair, stared up at him with undisguised hatred.
*
The manageress of the flower-shop lived in a small flat halfway up the steep hill which lay immediately behind the eastern arm of the harbour. Mrs Quale was a middle-aged, solid woman with an authoritative manner. It was easy to understand why she and Hazel Clews disliked each other so much.
‘As I said before, she’s not the type of person I would employ if I had any choice,’ said Mrs Quale. She sat upright in a hard-backed chair in the small sitting-room. ‘Unfortunately, because of the high wages paid in the factories, I have very little choice in the quality of my assistants.’
It would take an angel to satisfy her, Clayton thought. ‘Will you tell me again about her movements on Monday afternoon?’
Mrs Quale studied him. ‘You keep asking me the same questions. Did she have something to do with the deaths?’
‘The two things just don’t follow,’ he answered in a casual voice. ‘It’s merely that we have to take as much trouble establishing the innocence of the innocent as proving the guilt of the guilty.’
She looked as if she did not believe him. ‘She was late back from lunch — but then there was nothing unusual in that.’
‘How late?’
‘She returned well after a quarter to two although she’d left the shop at half-past twelve.’
‘And she was in the shop from then on?’
‘That’s right.’
‘A man came in and spoke to her during the afternoon?’
‘I thought at first he was a customer, but very soon saw he wasn’t. All he wanted was to talk to her — and this was during shop hours.’
‘What time was this?’
‘Twenty minutes past three.’
‘You seem very sure of the time?’ he said.
‘When I realized what he wanted, I checked with my watch to see how long he stayed.’
‘Would you recognize him again?’
‘Of course.’
Clayton took half a dozen photographs from his pocket and handed them to Mrs Quale. She picked out the one of Shear without any hesitation.
Chapter 15
Akers listened to Clayton’s report and then walked across to the window of the office. He looked out for several seconds before turning round. ‘Mrs Knott has just again denied she left the house in Challock Road from the time she arrived in the morning to the time she left in the evening and Miss Corrins has corroborated her evidence. Get over there right away and see what she says in the light of this evidence.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Clayton.
‘You told me she employed a gardener — he might be able to help.’
‘I’ll have a word with him.’
‘That girl’s evidence,’ said Akers thoughtfully, ‘means far more than she realizes. When she described Mrs Knott’s face as all twisted up, she was obviously describing a woman who was emotionally in a totally unstable state. It doesn’t need much experience to know there’s no trigger to crime quicker than emotion.’
‘I’m sure you’re right, sir, but it does seem a bit odd … ’
‘What were you going to say?’
‘Nothing, sir.’
Akers looked long and hard at Clayton, but when he saw the DI was not going to speak, he waved his right hand in a gesture of dismissal.
Clayton walked along the corridor to the CID general room and told Burrows to accompany him. They went downstairs to his car.
As Burrows sat down in the front passenger seat, he said: ‘I’ve fixed up to go out tonight with my wife, sir.’
‘So had I,’ replied Clayton.
‘I haven’t had the chance to go out with her in the evening for a very long time.’
‘Nor have I.’
Burrows lapsed into a moody silence.
Their wives, thought Clayton as he backed and turned the car, were long-suffering.
The main road was solid with holiday traffic that was returning towards London and Clayton drove through the back streets to Challock Road. Black-bellied thunder-clouds were banked high behind Miss Corrins’s house and they added to that architectural extravagance an air of impending drama. Mrs Knott’s Bentley was parked in the drive and it looked even shabbier than the last time he had seen it. He hated seeing a really good car fall into decay; one of his lifelong ambitions, quite unattainable, was to own one of the original Bentleys, with strap over the bonnet and outside handbrake, whose thundering, shuddering, juddering mode of progress would threaten to sweep aside any vehicle rash enough to get in the way.
He knocked on the door. Miss Corrins opened it and when she saw him her square, solid face expressed bitter anger. ‘What now?’ she demanded roughly. ‘I’ve only just got rid of someone from the police. I’m not going to go on being bothered like this — I’ll complain to the chief constable.’
Clayton said nothing.
‘Well, what do you want?’
‘A word with you and then with Mrs Knott.’
‘I’ve nothing more to say, nothing, d’you understand?’
‘I think perhaps you ought to hear the evidence that has come to hand before you make any further comment.’
She hesitated, studied his face, and then stepped to one side. They entered.
‘Well?’ she demanded.
‘You’ve been asked several times whether Mrs Knott left this house at any time last Monday and you’ve always answered that she did not. Yet we now know she was in Trighton-on-Sea at around two o’clock that afternoon.’
Miss Corrins thrust out her formidable chin. ‘She was here all day.’
‘She was identified in Trighton by a person who knew her.’
‘That person’s lying.’
He shook his head.
‘I tell you, it’s a lie,’ she shouted.
‘Where’s Mrs Knott?’ he asked.
She instinctively looked at the door of the sitting-room. Realizing what she had done, she jerked her head round. ‘She’s gone out,’ she rasped.
‘Her car is still in the drive.’ Clayton spoke to Burrows. ‘See if Mrs Knott is in that room.’
‘You’ve no right … ’ began Miss Corrins, but she stopped as Burrows opened the door. They could all see Mrs Knott who sat on the settle and was staring with a frightened expression at the doorway.
‘Why do you keep lying to us?’ asked Clayton. He was astonished to see the sudden glint of tears in Miss Corrins’s eyes: he had not believed her capable of tears. She seemed about to say something, then turned and moved in an ungainly manner towards the stairs.
‘Miss Corrins,’ he said, ‘what’s the name and address of your gardener?’
She came to a stop with her hand on the banisters. ‘Why d’you want to know?’
‘I’m going to question him.’
‘I won’t tell you.’
‘That just means I’ll have to come back and talk to him here.’
She began to climb the stairs. ‘His name’s Jarrold and he lives at 14 Northgate Road. He’ll swear Phyllis never left here,’ she shouted.
He watched her go out of sight. He disliked her as a woman, yet he hated having so distressed her.
They went into the sitting-room. Mrs Knott looked almost old: she wore no make-up and her cheeks were colourless, her face haggard and deeply lined. She had a handkerchief in her hands and kept plucking at it.
Clayton stopped by one of the arm-chairs. He spoke quietly. ‘Did you hear all that I said to Miss Corrins, Mrs Knott?’
She shook her head.
‘I told her that we now have evidence you left this house last Monday. At about two o’clock in the afternoon, you were in Trighton.’
‘No!’ she cried.
‘Your reason for being there was to try to identify the woman you’d seen your husband with at a restaurant.’
‘He never went out with another woman.’
‘He often went out with Hazel Clews, who works in a florist’s.’
‘That’s all a lie,’ she cried hoarsely.
‘We have the evidence of Hazel Clews. Last Monday, she was at work when she saw you outside the shop, on the pavement. She says your face was distorted as if you were under a great emotional strain. Don’t you think it’s very much in your interests to tell us if you were suffering so terribly?’
She stared straight at him and just for a few seconds her fingers did not pluck at the handkerchief. ‘My husband never ever went out with another woman.’
‘But he took out a heavy life insurance and named Hazel Clews as the sole beneficiary. It’s obvious he knew her and knew her well.’
‘He never went out with another woman.’
‘Then how did he spend all the time he was away from the farm?’
‘He would never have betrayed our marriage.’ Her voice trembled.
‘Mrs Knott, did you murder your husband?’
‘No,’ she cried.
‘Then give us the facts because they can’t harm you. But if you go on lying … ’
She interrupted him. ‘I’ve told you the truth.’
‘Mrs Knott, you knew your husband was having an affair with a woman almost half his age. You went to Trighton to identify this woman. She says you looked mad with jealousy.’
‘She’s lying. I tell you, she’s lying.’
‘If you did leave this place on Monday, the gardener will almost certainly know. When I leave here, I’m going to question him.’
‘He’ll swear I never left.’ She began to sob, deep, shuddering sobs that shook her whole body. Tears streamed down her cheeks. ‘Daniel never went out with another woman: he couldn’t have betrayed me.’
Clayton sighed. He led the way out of the room and across the hall. As they left the cover of the porch heavy spatters of rain fell on them and as they sat down in the car the rain began to drum on the roof with an ever-increasing intensity until it was virtually a cloudburst.
Clayton leaned back in his seat. ‘Not a bad evening’s work,’ he said bitterly. ‘Two women reduced to tears.’
‘God, what women!’ said Burrows.
What women, thought Clayton, yet that did not prevent their suffering. Sometimes, police work made him think that living and suffering were the same thing and it was only when he returned to the warm comfort of his own home that he knew this to be nonsense.
Jarrold lived half a mile away in a road that was in sharp contrast with the one the detectives had just left. A council housing estate stretched its length and here there were no large gardens, no luxury flats, no architectural follies, only square boxes, differing from each other merely in small details.
They were able to park close to No. 14 and a short run through the driving rain brought them to an open porch which gave them some protection until their knock was answered.
Jarrold was a small, middle-aged man, barely five feet three in height, with a face that immediately reminded Clayton of a ferret because of its sharp inquisitiveness. His wife was a colourless woman, unattractive, and the moment she learned who they wer
e it was clear she was worried. Jarrold appeared totally unworried and continued to watch the television to the end of the programme. As the credits came up, he switched it off and then looked at Clayton, a sly expression on his face.
‘You know Mrs Knott, don’t you?’ said Clayton, as he sat down on the settee.
‘I know ’er to look at’ said Jarrold.
‘Then will you tell me whether Mrs Knott was at Miss Corrins’s house last Monday?’
Jarrold brought a tin out of his pocket, opened it, and began to roll himself a cigarette. ‘You want to know about last Monday?’
Clayton was watching Mrs Jarrold’s face. He did not miss the signs of great nervousness, nor the way in which she kept looking at her husband in what was almost a pleading manner. He remembered how both Miss Corrins and Mrs Knott had been so insistent that Jarrold would swear Mrs Knott had never left the house.
‘Mrs Knott was there Monday,’ said Jarrold. He struck a match and lit his cigarette. ‘That were the day Miss Corrins told me to dig out a new bed: I told ’er it was a stupid place for a new rose-bed, but she didn’t never listen.’
‘Can you say whether Mrs Knott left the house at any time during Monday?’
Jarrold shook his head. ‘No, she didn’t.’
‘You’re quite sure?’
‘I wouldn’t talk otherwise.’
‘How d’you know she didn’t go out?’
‘I’ve got eyes, ain’t I? The new rose-bed were in the front of the ’ouse.’
Clayton spoke pleasantly. ‘We know you’re lying.’
Mrs Jarrold drew in her breath with a sharp hiss. Her worry became fear.
‘I’m tellin’ you she never left the ’ouse.’ Jarrold’s voice rose.
‘She was in Trighton at two in the afternoon.’ Clayton’s voice hardened. ‘This is a murder case. People who set out to lie are going to end up in real trouble.’
Jarrold said nothing.
‘Why are you lying? Did Miss Corrins bribe you to say that Mrs Knott never left the house?’
Jarrold threw the cigarette into the fireplace.
‘Joe!’ cried his wife.
‘Belt up,’ he muttered.
‘Joe, tell’em. It ain’t right.’
‘There ain’t nothing to tell.’
Dead Man's Bluff Page 13
