by Roger Keevil
Chapter 11
Phil Knightly was just replacing the telephone receiver as the two detectives entered his office. He looked weary.
“Not interrupting at a bad time, Mr. Knightly, I hope,” said Andy Constable.
“Not at all, Mr. Constable,” replied Phil. “In fact, that was the last of the guests I’ve had to put off.” He attempted a rather sketchy smile. “I’m beginning to think, with all the lies and evasions I’ve had to come up with, I should be contemplating a career in crime. I’m sure it would be less complicated than my life at present.”
“Best stay as you are, sir,” said Constable, echoing the smile. “Sergeant Copper and I have a pretty formidable clear-up rate, you know.”
The hotel manager grimaced. “Thanks for the advice, inspector. How about the clear-up of our current problem? Are you getting anywhere on that?”
“We’re making progress, sir,” answered Constable. “That’s the best I can tell you at present.”
Phil turned to his computer. “Anyway, my guest problem is at least postponed, so that’s one job done.” He started to click keys. “Now, what can I do for you?”
“For a start, sir, don’t close your computer down too irrevocably. We’re going to want to use it to take a look at something.”
“Oh? What, now?” Phil’s hand hovered over the keyboard.
“Not just at this second, sir. As far as Sergeant Copper and I are concerned, the main priority at the moment is sustenance. I think we may be in danger of running out of fuel, and I wondered if we could prevail on you to organise a cup of tea for us. Maybe even a biscuit or two?”
“That, inspector, is the most refreshingly normal thing anyone’s said to me today. Yes, of course, I’ll be glad to. Do you want me to bring it through to the drawing room?”
“No, that’s fine, sir. We’ll come through to the kitchen with you, if that’s all right.”
“By all means.” Phil stood and turned to open what looked like a cupboard door behind his desk. “Come on through.”
“You know, guv, I’d forgotten that little door to the kitchen existed,” remarked Dave Copper as the police officers made to follow the hotel manager. “What with hidden doors and secret staircases, this place is a bit of a rabbit warren, isn’t it?”
“All designed to make our job more fun,” agreed Constable.
As the three entered the kitchen, the inspector was slightly surprised to find Sheila Deare seated at the table gazing moodily into a mug of tea.
“We’ve obviously had identical thought processes, Sheila,” commented Constable. “Nothing like tea to refresh a policeman’s brain. Or woman’s,” he added swiftly.
“There’s still some in the pot,” responded Sheila. “Although it’s probably rather stewed by now.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll make fresh,” said Phil, and busied himself with a clatter in the background.
“So where do we stand, Andy?” asked Sheila.
“Questions and answers, questions and answers,” replied Constable. “Rather more of the former than the latter for now, but I’ve got a few thoughts beginning to coalesce in my mind. My next step is to go and have a further word with our happy band of virtual prisoners upstairs to see if I can refine any of those thoughts, but Copper and I were in need of a little re-fuelling, so we’ve enlisted Mr. Knightly’s services.” He looked over his shoulder. “Oh, by the way, sir, maybe it might be a good idea to provide the ministers with something to go on with in terms of lunch.”
“I could organise some sandwiches,” suggested Phil.
“Excellent idea, sir,” approved Constable. “I don’t want people fainting from malnutrition. And could you possibly add some coffee to the order and see it gets to Mr. Daly in the morning room? I think he probably deserves some reward for what he’s been able to tell us.”
“What, despite the fact that he’s here under false pretences?” Sheila sounded outraged. “He should think himself lucky that he’s not under arrest, but he’s obviously out of it, since I’m his alibi. But in my opinion, all he deserves is a kick up the …”
“Take the positive view, Sheila,” interrupted Constable quickly, as Phil placed cups of tea and a plate of biscuits in front of the detectives. “He’s been able to give us information that wouldn’t have come our way if he weren’t who he is. So I’m grateful for that. Anyway, how about yourself? What’s the latest with you?”
“Not that much,” confided Sheila. “I looked in to the library just now, but your Sergeant Singleton was still busy in there. She said she hoped not to be too much longer and she’d let me know when she was ready to move on to Mrs. Ronson’s room, so as my presence seemed surplus to requirements, I thought I’d come and have a cup of tea in here and contemplate my future. Besides, I didn’t want to hang around in a room where someone had been murdered.”
Dave Copper exchanged glances with his superior and cleared his throat. “Oh, if only you knew,” he muttered through crumbs.
Constable gulped the last of his tea. “That reminds me. Copper, get on to the doc, would you? Check where the van he said he’d send to remove the remains has got to. I’d like to give him the chance to confirm his findings as soon as possible, before he actually retires. Then you can come and find me. I’ll be in the library.” He stood and opened what he thought was the door through which the detectives had entered, to find himself looking at the lower treads of a narrow winding staircase. “Mr. Knightly, help me out. I’m getting confused with all these doors. Which is my best route?”
“Not that one, inspector,” said Phil, “Unless you’re heading up to the bedrooms. Just go through that door over there that actually looks like a door, and you’ll find yourself in the dining room corridor. Turn left, and you’ll be out in the hall.”
Copper turned back from the corner, where he had been murmuring into his mobile. “Quick and easy, sir. According to the doc, the meat-wagon …” He broke off at Constable’s growl of disapproval. “Sorry, sir. What I meant to say was, the pathologist’s van has just come through the gates. It’s on its way up the drive even as we speak.”
“Good. Sheila, could you perhaps go out to meet them and bring them through to the library?”
“Of course, Andy. And then I suppose I’d better check in with my masters in Whitehall. They’ll be hopping up and down wanting anything I can tell them.”
“Fob them off for a little while longer as best you can,” suggested Constable. “Copper and I will do our damnedest to drive this forward as fast as possible. I can’t help thinking I’m starting to get a few gleams of light at the end of the tunnel, but they’re rather dimmer than I would wish. Come along, sergeant – notebook at the ready, and we’ll go and jemmy a few more pieces of information out of our cast of suspects. That’s after we’ve checked in with your … with Sergeant Singleton.”
In the library, Una Singleton was seated behind the desk, tapping entries into her tablet computer. She looked up as the detectives entered.
“How’s it going, sergeant?” Constable was uncomfortably aware of the now sheet-draped body of the late Prime Minister still sprawled on the floor, a mute reproach to those charged with uncovering her murderer.
“Pretty well, sir,” she replied. “I was just typing up the last of my notes.”
“Which is excellent timing, because the doctor’s van is just arriving to remove the body.”
“Do you want a report on what I’ve got so far, sir?”
“Not at the moment. We all have other fish to fry. I want you to take a look at the Prime Minister’s room while I’m having another talk with her colleagues. So follow us.” Constable led the way out of the room and up the stairs, just as Sheila Deare was ushering two of the doctor’s sombrely-dressed staff in through the front door. At the head of the stairs, Constable pointed to the left. “The room you want is at the end of the corridor,” he said. “The Chinese Bedroom. Do you want Sergeant Copper to help you find it?”
“That’s fine, sir
,” smiled Una. “I’m sure I can find my way into a bedroom without needing David’s help.”
“Then we will leave you to get on,” said Constable, ignoring the choking noises coming from his junior colleague behind him. “And we will make a start at the far end, and rendezvous with you when we’re finished. Come along … David … refresh my memory. Who’s our first port of call?”
Copper leafed back through his notes. “That’s Mr. Fitt, sir.”
“Off we go, then.”
*
When he answered the door of the Cedar Room, Benny seemed to have lost some of his robust jocularity. His still shiny features looked careworn.
“Is anything happening?” he enquired of the detectives as they entered the room.
“Enquiries are progressing, Mr. Fitt,” said Andy Constable, taking a stance in front of the fireplace, Dave Copper at his side. “But there are one or two things that I’d like to clarify if I may. Just as I’m doing with all your other colleagues. And as I know that you are keen on not keeping people waiting too long, I thought we’d come to you first.”
“That’s kind of you, inspector.” Benny’s smile was slightly off-key. “So what would you like to know?”
“You left us with the impression that relations between the Prime Minister and all your other colleagues were largely amicable, Mr. Fitt.”
“Well, other than the normal fencing over the odd territorial dispute between departments, that’s true,” said Benny warily. “Why, has someone been saying something different?”
“Quite a few people, sir. And one person in particular heard some words pass between Mrs. Ronson and yourself which shed a slightly different light on the matter. Something to do with a lady living in the constituency of your P.P.S. Who might that be, I wonder? And why would it matter to you?”
“Oh, please, inspector. I can’t be expected to keep all the individual cases involving my department in my head.”
“Of course not, sir. Nobody would expect you to. But this was also in the wake of some other remarks which had been made concerning families in your journey down to the pub. So I’m getting the impression that Mrs. Ronson may not have been entirely satisfied that your department’s family policy was going in the right direction. Perhaps she was demanding a change. And perhaps she felt that someone other than yourself would be a better person to enact this change. In other words, isn’t it possible that your job was on the line? Could I be justified in thinking that you were about to be dismissed? And couldn’t that give you a very sound motive, in your own mind, for killing the woman who held your fate in her hands?”
“This is all nonsense!” blustered Benny. “Why on earth would I want to murder the P.M. over some woman in Whitechapel, whoever she may be?”
*
“He’s badly rattled, guv,” remarked Copper, as the two officers stood once again in the corridor.
“That he most certainly is,” agreed Constable, “and yet he has a point. Why should one specific case be the basis of a threat to his career? There’s a piece of the jigsaw missing. And I’m wondering if it’s anything to do with these whispers that Mr. Daly was talking about. More thought required, I think, but in the meantime, let’s move on.”
Erica Mayall had changed from the exotic informal dressing gown she had been wearing earlier into a dramatic but sombre midnight-blue dress with a severely cinched-in waist, to which had been added a touch of glamour by means of a shot-silk pashmina in shades of purple casually draped around her shoulders. Her purple and gold footwear sported vertiginously high heels. Heavy gold jewellery with a hint of the barbaric adorned her wrist and ears. In response to the detectives’ request to enter, she stood back wordlessly, seated herself in her previous position on the sofa, crossed her legs, and gazed up at Constable in expectant silence.
“If I may say so, Ms. Mayall, you are managing to maintain your composure very well in the face of this tragedy,” began Constable. “Some people would be quite ruffled by the situation, and yet here you are, still succeeding in looking remarkably chic. Something of an achievement. Particularly in view of your close relationship with Mrs. Ronson.”
Erica’s flawlessly made-up features did not move. “We had a great deal in common, inspector.”
“But you also had disagreements, I think. And for some reason, I keep hearing the word ‘shoes’ crop up.” Constable glanced down at Erica’s feet. “I must say, if those you’re wearing are typical of your style, I can understand why they would draw attention. Now, without wishing to be disrespectful of the dead, I think we can agree that nobody would have described the late Prime Minister as a fashion leader. She probably did not regard her personal appearance as being of prime importance in the carrying out of her rôle. You, on the other hand, are in a much more prominent situation with reference to the position of women in public life. One might almost say you are – and please don’t bite my head off for using the expression – something of a poster-girl.” Erica’s glare was a clear indication of her opinion of Constable’s choice of words. “But,” the inspector pressed on, “maintaining a first-class visual image doesn’t necessarily come cheap. And you’ve been described to me as a lady with tastes which come at considerable expense. I’m just wondering if the word expense was used coincidentally in that context.”
“I have no idea what you’re driving at, inspector,” responded Erica.
“Oh, I think you do, Ms. Mayall,” countered Constable. “Overseas trips are costly. We’re all aware of how toxic the matter of M.P.‘s expenses can be. People’s careers have been destroyed. Is it possible that Mrs. Ronson felt that yours could become one of those casualties? Might she have decided to nip a problem in the bud before it became public? And might you not have decided to make a pre-emptive strike?”
“You have no idea how ridiculous this sounds, Mr. Constable,” asserted Erica, ice in her tone.
“Perhaps it does, Miss Mayall,” conceded the inspector. “As I’ve said, you two were close.” Suddenly recalling one of Jim’s earlier observations, he elected to try a wild shot in the dark. “Perhaps very close. More than close, even?”
There was an extremely long pause.
Erica’s face suddenly crumpled, before she took a deep breath and steadied herself. “You can put away any prejudices, inspector,” she replied in a slightly shaky voice. “They won’t be needed here.” She hesitated as if seeking the right words, and her tone strengthened. “There was nothing physical about our friendship. Nothing that was ever even put into words. I don’t think either of us even thought of such a thing. But one evening, after a particularly long day in the House of Commons over one of the former government’s measures, we went back to her office to talk over the situation. And that’s all. We talked. But in one of the pauses in the conversation, there came one of those moments. We just looked at one another. I didn’t say anything. Neither did she. And I’m not sure what we would have said anyway. But we both knew. It wasn’t an emotion I’d ever felt before, and I sensed that neither had she. She’d been a happily-married woman, for goodness’ sake. But after that, we’ve always … cared for one another. I don’t know how else to put it. But I’m confident that it never affected our professional relationship. Or my career. I just know that it means that she would never have done anything to injure me, and I would certainly never have harmed her.”
“I don’t know how well that accords with one of Mrs. Ronson’s remarks that anything that you’d been given could easily be taken away,” observed Constable. “A rather sharp put-down, by the sound of it. So hardly a rose without a thorn.”
“Think what you like, inspector. I know what I know.”
“Of course, there is also one fact which doesn’t seem to fit into this situation. Or rather, one person. So perhaps you can enlighten me. Who is Heather?”
Erica’s face set. She clamped her lips shut and made no answer.
“You see,” continued the inspector, “the picture you paint is very compelling. A caring pla
tonic relationship where nothing inappropriate intrudes. But let me indulge in a little wild speculation. What if another person were to intrude? What if this undeclared affection were jeopardised by the appearance of a third person? Someone who perhaps dripped the poison concerning your personal extravagance, for example? Someone who threatened to tear down the structure that had been so carefully created? And supplant it with herself? There is a saying about hell having no fury, and so on. So might a woman who faced the situation I describe, take it into her head to strike first? ‘If I cannot have what I want, then nobody shall’? Can’t you see, Ms. Mayall, that, in the hands of a determined prosecutor, this could all look only too plausible?”
“You have no idea what you’re talking about, Mr. Constable,” said Erica, still stony-faced. “And before you make yourself even more ridiculous by conjuring up any more wild fantasies, I suggest you go.” She marched to the door and held it open, glaring defiantly as the two police officers left the room.
*
There was silence for a few moments.
“I’m not sure that went exactly according to plan, did it, guv?” ventured Dave Copper eventually.
Andy Constable sighed in exasperation. “Very little of it did, to be perfectly honest. But we’ve elicited a few more facts that explain some of the things that people have overheard in dribs and drabs.”
Copper had a thought. “Tell you one thing, sir. It all accounts very nicely for that letter I found in Mrs. Ronson’s room – you know, the reply to a resignation. Obviously that would refer to Ms. Mayall.”
“Would it, though?” Constable sounded dubious. “I’m not convinced. The potential for personal scandal, well, maybe. You know how prim the public can be. But that would only be if the story were publicised and provable, and I’m not sure either of those applies.”
