The Cold Hand of Malice

by Frank Smith

  Moira Ballantyne was trying hard to look composed as she watched Tregalles set up the tape recorder, but she couldn’t conceal her apprehension completely.

  She was a small woman, fine-boned and dainty. Her blonde hair was cropped and combed straight back with just the hint of a wave in the boyish cut. But there was nothing boyish about the perfect oval of her face, unblemished skin, full lips, and hazel eyes. Nor could the straight-cut two-piece suit in a heather tweed, and snow-white blouse with just a touch of lace at the neck, conceal the trim figure and slender legs. And, despite the weather, fashionable, open-toed shoes completed the ensemble, adding inches to her height.

  She was an attractive woman, and whether or not it was true that she and Holbrook were having an affair, or had had one in the past, Paget could see how gossip at the club might link the two together.

  Tregalles set the recorder in motion and entered the time, date, location, and those present, including the name of the policewoman who sat just inside the door.

  Paget began by thanking Moira for coming in – not that she’d had much choice in the matter – to help them clear up one or two things that seemed to be, as he put it, ‘at variance’ with what she had told them a few days ago. Their eyes met across the table, and Paget sensed a flicker of fear before Moira looked away.

  ‘It’s the fingerprints, isn’t it?’ she said before he had a chance to ask a question. She shook her head sadly. ‘I knew I should have told you the truth the other day, but I was afraid you wouldn’t believe me if I did. I didn’t have anything to do with Laura’s death; you have to believe me about that, and I was hoping . . .’ She spread her hands and shook her head again.

  ‘Hoping we wouldn’t find your prints at the scene?’ Paget finished for her. ‘But you were there, in the room, weren’t you, Mrs Ballantyne?’

  She nodded. ‘It was the light in the window, you see,’ she said in a low voice. ‘That’s what made me decide to go in. I had no idea . . .’

  ‘Let’s begin at the beginning,’ Paget suggested. ‘You told us the other day that you were at home all evening on March fourth, the evening Mrs Holbrook was murdered. I take it you are now saying that was not true?’

  Moira nodded. ‘I went out to post—’

  ‘Please answer yes or no for the tape, Mrs Ballantyne,’ Tregalles broke in.

  ‘Oh! Oh, yes, of course. Yes. I mean I did go out that night to post a letter to my mother. The letterbox is at the top of the street. I didn’t notice a light in Laura’s bedroom window on the way up there, but I did on the way back, and that surprised me, because she hates any sort of light when she has a migraine. So I went in.’

  ‘What time was this?’

  ‘Quarter past nine, nine thirty, something like that. I don’t remember exactly.’

  ‘You say you went in. How did you get in? Was the door unlocked?’

  ‘No. I have a key. I keep it on my key ring because I look after the plants and things when they’re both away.’

  ‘So you went in. Tell us what you did then.’

  ‘I went up the stairs. I didn’t call out or anything just in case she was asleep. I thought perhaps her migraine had cleared up and she’d turned the light on, then fallen asleep again.’

  ‘You went into the bedroom,’ Paget prompted. ‘What did you see?’

  Moira chewed on her lip and drew a deep breath before answering. ‘At first, I thought she had fallen out of bed. I really did. The sheets were pulled half off the bed, and although I couldn’t see the lamp itself, I could see the light shining from the floor, so I thought – I don’t know what I thought, really, except that something had happened to Laura. I think I called out. I went around the end of the bed, and that’s when I saw the blood . . .’ The words died in Moira’s throat. She swallowed hard and took a deep, shuddering breath, then sat back and looked at Paget and shook her head.

  ‘How was she lying?’ he asked quietly. ‘Was she lying on her back, her side . . .?’

  Moira looked up at the ceiling and took another long breath before she answered. ‘Sort of on her side but face down,’ she said. ‘The lamp was on the floor beside her. It was tipped over on its side, but still on. I tried to turn her over, but the lamp was in the way, so I picked it up and set it on the little table beside the bed. It’s funny, Laura wasn’t very big, but she seemed to be so heavy. Down on my knees like that I couldn’t seem to get a good grip on her, and – this probably sounds silly now – I didn’t want to hurt her. Then, quite suddenly, she rolled over and I saw her face.’

  Moira’s face was pale, her breathing shallow. Paget poured a glass of water and handed it to her. She sipped it slowly at first, then deeply, gulping the liquid down until she’d almost emptied the glass.

  Paget gave her a minute to recover before asking what she had done next.

  Moira looked down at her hands. ‘I didn’t know what to do. I was in shock. I’d never seen anything so brutal in my life before. I knew it was no good calling a doctor or an ambulance. There was no doubt whatsoever that Laura was dead, and the only thing I could think about was getting away from there, because it suddenly occurred to me that whoever had killed her might still be in the house.’

  ‘Did you hear or see anything that would suggest someone was still in the house?’

  ‘No, but I imagined all sorts of things, and as I said, I just wanted to get away from there.’

  ‘Tell me again why you decided to go into the house in the first place.’

  A small frown drew the delicate eyebrows together as if puzzled by a question she thought she had already answered. ‘As I believe I said, Chief Inspector, I saw the light on, and I wondered about it. It crossed my mind that Laura might have used the migraine as an excuse to get out of going to see a film she wasn’t keen on, and was there on her own, so I thought I would just pop in.’

  Paget glanced across at Tregalles. The sergeant took his cue and said, ‘For a friendly chat, that sort of thing, was it, Mrs Ballantyne?’

  She frowned. ‘I suppose you could say that,’ she said. ‘I had nothing specific in mind.’

  ‘And you saw nothing to suggest that someone had broken into the house? Nothing suspicious? There was no other reason for you to go into the house?’

  ‘No.’ Moira shot a puzzled look at Paget as if seeking an explanation for the sergeant’s questions. ‘I don’t understand what you’re getting at,’ she said, turning back to Tregalles.

  ‘It just seems odd to me that you would go into the house and go up to Mrs Holbrook’s bedroom for no other reason that to have a bit of a chat, when you say yourself she might well have been asleep. Are you sure there wasn’t another reason, Mrs Ballantyne?’

  ‘I really don’t know what you expect me to say,’ she said softly. ‘It’s the sort of thing one does on a whim, I suppose. I hadn’t meant to go into the house when I went out to post the letter. It was just the fact that the light was on that prompted me to go in. We were friends, and—’

  ‘Were you really?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘I mean,’ said Tregalles softly, ‘were you still friends after Mrs Holbrook accused you of having an affair with her husband the day before she was killed?’

  The colour drained from Moira’s face, leaving two bright spots on her cheeks, but she remained silent.

  ‘We need an answer, Mrs Ballantyne,’ said Paget. ‘What was your relationship with Mrs Holbrook at that point?’

  Moira closed her eyes and drew a deep breath. She exhaled slowly. ‘All right,’ she said tightly, ‘since you seem to have been prying into our affairs . . .’ She stopped, perhaps realizing that she could have chosen a better word. ‘Laura more or less accused me of having an affair with Simon,’ she continued, ‘but it wasn’t true. If Simon was having it off with someone – and I can’t say I would be all that surprised if he was – it wasn’t with me. And that is why I went into the house; I wanted to clear that up once and for all.’

  ‘And yet there mus
t have been some reason for Mrs Holbrook to believe that you were having an affair with her husband,’ said Paget. ‘Why do you think that was?’

  Moira compressed her lips and shook her head. ‘I don’t know,’ she said, ‘but I do know she was wrong!’

  ‘You said you wouldn’t be surprised if Mr Holbrook was having an affair with someone. Why is that, Mrs Ballantyne? Does he have a history of such behaviour?’

  Moira drew a deep, steadying breath. ‘Look,’ she said, ‘I don’t know anything for certain, but I don’t think it’s any secret that Simon does have that sort of reputation, and things have been a bit strained between him and Laura recently. But Laura was wrong to think that I was involved.’

  ‘Strained?’ said Paget. ‘I don’t recall you mentioning that when we spoke to you last week. Would you like to explain that, Mrs Ballantyne?’

  Moira sighed. ‘It’s been that way for the past few months,’ she said wearily. ‘I didn’t want to say anything to you before because it’s really none of my business, but there was some sort of friction between them.’

  ‘How did you get along with Laura Holbrook?’ Paget asked. ‘That is before she accused you of having an affair with Simon? You and your husband seem to have enjoyed the company of the Holbrooks; you did a number of things together, and yet I have the impression that your feelings toward Laura in particular were ambivalent to say the least. Is that true?’

  Moira eased back in her chair and thought about that for a moment. ‘I don’t know how to answer that,’ she said slowly. ‘It’s hard to explain. You see, it was almost as if Laura had two personalities. She could be charming and gracious, and one of the nicest people you would ever wish to meet, and you couldn’t help but like her. But there was another side to her, a harder side. When it came to business she was like a machine. She knew exactly what she wanted, and she made sure she got it, which is why the company is doing so well today. Simon was thrilled with the results, at least at first, because it allowed him to get on with what he likes to do best. He could spend his time in the lab and not have to worry about the marketing end of things, and the day-to-day running of the office, so he was pretty happy. But it’s been clear for some time, now, that things were getting a bit strained between them. In fact there were times when it was rather uncomfortable being around them when they were sniping at each other.’

  ‘About what, exactly?’

  ‘Anything and everything, although I think it was mainly to do with the business. Simon didn’t like the way Laura was taking over. Trevor said Simon told him he felt as if it was slipping away from him and he was losing control. He said Laura had even gone so far as to countermand decisions he’d made, and he was getting fed up with it.’

  ‘And yet Mr Holbrook himself talked about his wife and what she had done for the company in glowing terms,’ said Paget, ‘and Peggy Goodwin indicated that Mrs Holbrook’s death would be a serious blow to the business.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think there can be any doubt about that. Laura saved that business from going under. She poured a lot of her own money into the firm, moved them into new premises, but even that wouldn’t have been enough without her contacts and expertise, so she is going to be missed. But as I said, the woman was like a machine when it came to business. She was spending more and more time away from home, drumming up new business, and that was all she talked about when she was here, and I know Simon was unhappy about that.’

  ‘Would you say he was looking for a way to end the partnership?’

  ‘Yes, I think he . . .’ Moira stopped abruptly as she realized the implication. ‘But not in the way you’re suggesting,’ she said quickly.

  ‘In what way, then?’

  Moira shrugged helplessly. ‘I don’t know. I only meant to say that I think he was getting a bit frustrated, that’s all.’

  ‘Did Mrs Holbrook ever say anything to you that would indicate there were problems between her and her husband?’

  ‘Not really. Well, there was once, about a month ago, when we were having coffee together at the club. She seemed to be a bit wound up, and she’d been pretty short with Simon during the game, so I asked her if anything was wrong. She said something to the effect that she wished Simon would stick to what he did best and leave the running of the business to her. She said she couldn’t understand what his problem was; he had only to look at the bottom line to see how well they had done under her guidance. The trouble was, I don’t think she could see what she was doing to Simon’s pride,’ she concluded.

  ‘Did you try to point that out to her?’

  ‘Good Lord, no! Laura wouldn’t have listened anyway, especially if she thought I was taking Simon’s side.’

  ‘But you did have some sympathy for Simon?’

  ‘Well, yes, but . . .’

  ‘Because I understand the two of you were very close at one time,’ said Paget, ‘so perhaps Laura had good reason to think that the two of you had resumed your earlier relationship.’

  The Cupid’s bow of Moira’s mouth disappeared into a thin, hard line. ‘You have been busy, haven’t you?’ she said icily. ‘And I resent the implication. I’ll admit we did have a brief, a very brief fling – you couldn’t even call it an affair – before Simon and Laura were married, but it was a mistake and one I deeply regret. Simon . . .’ She shook her head as if lost for words. ‘Simon is one of those people you can’t help liking. He’s attractive, he can be fun to be with, and women like him, but there’s no depth to him, no commitment to anything but his work. Laura may well have been right in believing that Simon was having an affair, but as I said before, it wasn’t with me. I made a mistake once, but I love my husband, and I wouldn’t want to do anything to destroy the relationship we have. That’s it. End of story!’

  ‘Not quite,’ Paget said. ‘You said that once you realized that Mrs Holbrook was dead, your only thought was to get away from the house. All right, fair enough, I can understand that, but why didn’t you call the police as soon as you got home?’

  Moira didn’t answer at once. Instead, she looked down at her hands, spreading her fingers as if trying to decide whether her nails needed retouching. ‘I was afraid,’ she said at last. ‘I thought if no one knew I’d been in the house, I could stay out of it. I had blood on my hands, on my coat.’ She shrugged. ‘As I said, I was scared. I know it sounds weak, but I didn’t want to be involved.’

  ‘Because you might be suspected of killing her,’ said Paget bluntly.

  ‘No!’ It was more a cry of anguish than negation, then: ‘Well, yes, I suppose that was part of it. I knew that people had overheard her accuse me of having an affair with Simon; I’d gone in to try to have it out with her, and I knew people would probably think the worst.’

  ‘And why shouldn’t they, Mrs Ballantyne? You admit that the two of you had quarrelled; you say there was nothing going on between you and Simon Holbrook, but we only have your word for that. You were involved in an earlier relationship, whatever you choose to call it, and you’ve as good as told us that Simon Holbrook was unhappy with his wife.

  ‘Looking at it from our point of view, let’s assume, for the moment, that you had never really given up on having Simon Holbrook for yourself, and when it became obvious that he was becoming dissatisfied with his marriage, you saw your chance. But Laura caught on, so you had to do something if you wished to get Simon back.

  ‘So when you learned that Laura Holbrook would not only be alone that night, but would be half drugged, sleeping off a migraine, you saw your chance. You begged off going to see the film yourself, then you went along to the house, used your key to get in, and went upstairs to Mrs Holbrook’s room. You killed her, then went downstairs, pulled out drawers and tossed a few things around to make it look as if the place had been vandalized. You then pried open the back door to make it look like a burglary, and went home and waited for someone else to find the body. Tell me, what did you do with the weapon?’

  Moira was shaking her head. She looked dazed. �
��I don’t know anything about a weapon,’ she said desperately when she found her voice. ‘I can only tell you what happened. I don’t know how you could think that I could do such a thing to anyone.’ She compressed her lips and closed her eyes tightly to hold back the tears. ‘I’ve told you the truth, I swear,’ she whispered. ‘Are you going to arrest me?’

  Paget sat back in his seat. It was tempting. Moira’s prints were all over the murder scene; she admitted to being there at or about the time Laura Holbrook was killed; admitted she had blood on her clothes, and they only had her word for it that she and Simon weren’t having an affair.

  Which could mean that she and Simon Holbrook had hatched the plot between them, and had used Moira’s husband, Trevor, to give Simon an alibi.

  It was very tempting – but it wasn’t enough.

  ‘No,’ he said, ‘but we will be searching your house and the surrounding area, and we will need the clothing you were wearing that night for forensic examination.’ He looked at his watch and nodded to Tregalles. ‘This interview is terminated at 15.23,’ he said. ‘However,’ he continued as Moira rose somewhat shakily to her feet, ‘I’m afraid we are going to have to keep you here until we have arranged for our people to begin the search. Do you have a mobile phone with you, Mrs Ballantyne?’

  ‘Why, yes, I have it here. I was about to phone Trevor, though God only knows what I’m going to say to him.’ Moira opened her handbag, but Paget held out his hand as she took out the phone.

  ‘Sorry,’ he told her, ‘but I’ll take charge of that. It will be given back to you as soon as you get home.’

  Moira wasn’t asleep. She was trying to pretend she was, but he could tell. She was lying too still, too rigid – as he was himself. She’d always twitted him about the way he could fall asleep almost as soon as his head touched the pillow, but she didn’t know how often he’d lain awake, pretending to be asleep. The illuminated hands of the bedside clock stood at twenty minutes to two, and Trevor Ballantyne had been going over and over in his head the events of the past few days ever since coming to bed at eleven.