Model Murder

by Nancy Buckingham

  “You’ve read this, Tim?”

  “Not yet. Didn’t have time.”

  “I’ve just struck something I wasn’t expecting. It seems that Corinne Saxon gave birth at some stage.”

  “Did she, now.” Give Boulter his due, that small piece of information was enough to spark his interest. He’d immediately seen the possible implications.

  “The child might not have survived, of course,” Kate went on. “In which case it’s probably unimportant from our point of view. But if there’s a child of hers still around somewhere, it could be significant. I think we’d better go and talk to Kenway again.”

  “Like now, you mean, guv?”

  “Why not? Get it cleared up. Anyway, it’s time we had another go at him about his shaky alibi.”

  * * * *

  On this fine Sunday, the village of Ashecombe-in-the-Vale had even more tourists milling around than the day before. Kate wasn’t surprised to find there were customers at Kenway Antiques. When she and Boulter entered the house, both the Kenways were talking to an elderly couple who seemed interested in a stripped pine kitchen dresser. The arrival of the police was clearly unwelcome. The Kenways exchanged glances, looking apprehensive.

  Kate said quietly, “We’d like a word as soon as possible, Mr. Kenway.”

  “Er, yes ... of course.” He muttered an apology to the customers, leaving them to his wife. “You’d better come upstairs.”

  The furniture in the living quarters was of distinctly lesser quality than in the display rooms below. In fact it was all pretty shabby. The walls needed decorating and the sofa and chairs cried out for re-upholstering. One corner of the room was used as an office. A battered filing cabinet and desk and chair. On the desk stood a typewriter so ancient it might well have fetched a price in the shop as a genuine antique. Clearly, Kenway and his wife were existing on a shoestring. Saving that regular monthly payment of four hundred pounds to Corinne was going to make a world of difference to them.

  Kenway didn’t invite them to sit down. Presumably he hoped to be rid of them quicker that way.

  “When I talked to you yesterday,” Kate began in a bland voice, “you were unable to suggest anyone who might be able to verify your claim to have been here with your wife last Wednesday afternoon. Have you had any further thoughts on that?”

  His eyes flickered nervously. “No, there isn’t anyone.”

  “You were both here for the entire afternoon?”

  “That’s right. As Liz and I told you before.”

  “You’re quite certain of that, sir, are you?” queried Boulter, with one of his intimidating glares. “Wednesday afternoon, we’re talking about. Neither you nor your wife went out for any reason?”

  “No, definitely not. I ... I don’t see why you won’t accept that.”

  We might, Kate thought, if you weren’t so obviously concealing something.

  She said, “If you want to change your story in any way, Mr. Kenway, this is the time to do so.”

  He seemed suddenly to come to the boil with indignant anger. “You can’t seriously be suggesting that I did away with Corinne. What possible reason could I have had for killing her?”

  “For the saving of four hundred pounds a month, perhaps.”

  “That’s a monstrous thing to say.”

  “But it’s a fact that you won’t have to pay the money any longer. Which is quite a considerable benefit to you. So I’m afraid that unless you provide us with some real proof of where you were that afternoon, your name will remain on our list of suspects.”

  He was silent for extending moments, glaring at her sullenly. Then he muttered, “I was here, I tell you. Liz and I were both here, and you’ll never be able to prove otherwise.”

  “That remains to be seen,” Kate said. “Now, onto another matter. The post-mortem examination of Miss Saxon’s body has revealed that she gave birth to a child at some time.”

  Kenway looked totally flabbergasted. “No, that can’t be right. Unless ... you mean since the divorce?”

  “Are you saying that it wasn’t your child, sir?” Boulter asked.

  “Of course it wasn’t.”

  “Why, of course?” said Kate.

  “Because Corinne flatly refused to have a baby, that’s why. I kept on and on at her about could we start a family, but she just wouldn’t listen. She said she’d no intention of being lumbered with kids.”

  Believable! It tallied with Kate’s assessment of Corinne Saxon’s character.

  “The evidence of the pathologist,” she said, “is that the birth wasn’t recent. Therefore, if it wasn’t during the time you were married to her, it’s likely to have occurred at some earlier date. Are you sure she never said anything to you about having had a child? Did you never suspect the possibility from something she let drop?”

  “No, never. I had no idea.”

  “I want to find out more about Corinne Saxon’s life in those earlier years before you were married. What can you tell me, Mr. Kenway? How did you come to meet her?”

  “We first met at a hotel in Cheltenham. The Angel. She was there in the cocktail bar.”

  “Alone?”

  “Yes, and I was alone, too. She was stunningly attractive, and I thought she looked vaguely familiar. But I didn’t realise who she was. A couple of times she gave me a friendly glance, and after a bit I went over and told her I was sure we must have met before somewhere. She laughed and said that it was a terribly corny line, but then she said maybe I’d seen her on the cover of a magazine. She told me her name, and of course I recognised it. That was the start. After that we went out together most evenings. I was doing pretty well in those days, so I could afford to take a woman to the best places.”

  “What was she doing in this part of the world?”

  “She was staying at her aunt’s house, near the Spa. She told me the old girl was ill in hospital, and because she’d brought Corinne up after her parents died, Corinne felt a sort of responsibility towards her. She gave me the impression that she was still being very successful in her modelling career, and I wasn’t to know any different. She said she’d cancelled all her professional engagements to come and be with her aunt.”

  “Her aunt died, I understand?”

  “Yes, about six weeks after we first met. By that time I was head over heels about Corinne, and I was scared to death she’d go back to London and I’d never see her again, so I asked her to marry me. It was only later on I realised she’d been expecting to inherit a lot from her aunt. She knew the house was only leased, but she didn’t know that the old lady’s income came almost entirely from annuities that died with her. So all there was for Corinne was a few hundred pounds and the furniture.”

  “She saw you as a fat meal ticket?” Boulter asked brutally.

  Kenway flinched, but he didn’t show offence. “I imagined that Corinne would continue with modelling work, but she never did. I was glad, really. I could support her, and I didn’t like the idea of her being away for days at a time. Even so, she went off to stay in London on a few occasions—to go shopping, she said, and look up her old friends.”

  “Where were you living in those days?” asked Kate.

  “In Cheltenham, at a very fancy new block of flats. Corinne found the place and I didn’t need much persuading, even though the rent was astronomical. As I said, I was doing pretty well at that time. Then things began to go downhill with my business, so we had to move somewhere cheaper. Corinne hated that. She never stopped blaming me for letting her down. In fact,” he added with a burst of feeling, “she made my life sheer bloody hell from then on. In the end, I was only too glad to get out of the marriage, even on the terms Corinne demanded. I became a free man again.”

  “Those friends of hers in London,” Boulter said. “Do you know who they were?”

  “I haven’t the least idea.”

  “You seem to know remarkably little about the woman you were married to, Mr. Kenway,” Kate observed.

  “It was th
e way Corinne wanted it, and I was so happy to have her I didn’t let it worry me. Not at first. Later, it became obvious that she’d been using me all along, right from the start. There was never any closeness between us, not ever. Now, though, I have a real marriage, and I thank God for it.”

  There was a slight sound from the doorway. Unnoticed, Liz Kenway had come upstairs and she must have overheard his last remark. With a little catch of breath that was almost a sob she ran forward to her husband and touched her lips to his cheek. Then she stood there beside him, her hand finding his. Together in their closeness, they faced the police. Don’t go soft on them, Kate!

  “Mr. Kenway,” she said directly, “did you kill Corinne Saxon?”

  He flinched again, and Kate saw his wife’s grip on his hand tighten. But he answered steadily, with no more than a slight tremor in his voice.

  “No, Chief Inspector, I did not. And I believe you know that I did not. I could never do such a dreadful thing.”

  “How about you, Mrs. Kenway? Did you kill her?”

  “How dare you accuse my wife,” Kenway flared.

  “Please, sir,” Boulter cut in, “allow the lady to answer for herself.”

  “Of course I didn’t kill her. What a suggestion! I hated Corinne, I’m ready enough to admit that and I’m not sorry that she’s dead. But I’d never have dreamed of killing her.”

  “It sounds as if,” Boulter remarked when they’d returned to the car, “they were expecting us to take their word for it, just like that.”

  “Innocent people do,” Kate reminded him. “They just can’t appreciate how the situation looks to us.”

  “That was quite an act they put on, wasn’t it? The loving couple.”

  “Was it an act, Tim? I’m not so sure. All the same, they weren’t telling the truth about Wednesday afternoon. I think we’d better have questions asked in the village, and specially the neighbouring houses, to see what emerges.”

  A message awaited Kate at the Incident Room that Mr. James Arliss had phoned. Would she ring him back? She made it her first job.

  “Ah, Chief Inspector, you athked me to let you know if I thought of anything.”

  “And you have?”

  “I’m not thertain it will help you, but ... well, on the one occathion I wath with Corinne in her private apartment at the hotel, there wath a phone call. I didn’t think anything of it at the time, but ... well, it wath annoying.”

  “In what way annoying?”

  Blushes don’t usually travel well along telephone lines, but this one came over loud and clear. “We were, if you ... er, understand me ...”

  “Quite so. Carry on, please, Mr. Arliss.”

  “Corinne took the call in the other room ... the thitting room, tho I didn’t hear every word. Not that I was really lithening.”

  “Do you know who the caller was?”

  “No, I don’t, but it was clearly a man. The githt of the converthation theemed to be that thhe wath telling him not to keep pethtering her. Thhe thounded quite irritated.”

  There’s meat here, Kate, so keep digging. Never mind that Arliss was clearly lying in pretending that he’d only just remembered this phone call. No man could have “forgotten” an interruption like that at such a deflatory moment. Alternatively, Arliss might be inventing the phone call (though she didn’t think so). In which case, why?

  “Did you get any hint of who it could have been?” she asked. “Did Miss Saxon use his name at any point?”

  “Well, I’m not thertain. It wath only the one time thhe thaid it, and ...”

  “What name was this?” Kate broke in urgently.

  “The point ith ... I can only tell you what it thounded like. Corinne wath in the other room, don’t forget.”

  “The name, Mr. Arliss.”

  “It wath Ram. But I might have got it wrong, of courthe.”

  “She called him Ram? R-A-M?”

  “Well ... yeth.”

  “Just the once? And no other name of any kind was mentioned? Perhaps the name of a place?”

  “No, jutht that one name ith what I heard.”

  “Tell me what you can remember about Miss Saxon’s side of the conversation.

  “Thhe began talking quietly, tho I couldn’t really hear. Thhe thounded annoyed more than anything. Exathperated. But then thhe thuddenly exploded at him.”

  “Exactly what was it she said?”

  “I’ve been thinking about that. Ath I recall, it went thumthing like thith. ‘Get the hell out of my hair, will you? Can’t you get the methage, Ram, it’th over? Finite. So bloody well thop bothering me.’ Then thhe thlammed the phone down.”

  “What comment did she make when she came back to join you?”

  “Thhe was laughing, but I had a feeling thhe didn’t really find it funny.” Arliss swallowed audibly. “Then thhe thaid to me,‘Don’t you get to be a bloody bore, Andy, when I give you your marching orderth.’”

  “Andy? Why did she call you Andy when your name is James?”

  “Oh? The fact ith, my thecond name is Andrew.”

  “I see. Tell me, Mr. Arliss, do you have the slightest idea who she might have been speaking to? Can you make a guess?”

  “I’m afraid not. I’ve no idea who it wath.”

  “Very well. If anything further does occur to you, please get in touch with me at once. Meantime, I think you’ll like to know that this morning I have received a report from Yorkshire. The police there are entirely satisfied that your wife was in Scarborough at the relevant times.”

  He made a grunting sound. “Dawn mentioned on the phone lath night that they’d been round to question her. Thhe was very puzzled, naturally, but I managed to convinth her that it wath only a matter of routine polith enquirieth.”

  A handy phrase, that, routine police enquiries. Kate hung up and called Boulter in.

  “We’ve very possibly got our man, Tim, except that we don’t know who the hell he is.” She relayed her conversation with Arliss.

  “Ram?” the sergeant repeated thoughtfully. “Convey anything to you, guv?”

  “It’s an abbreviation, I suppose.”

  “Ramsbottom?” he suggested. “How many Ramsbottoms have we got on our suspect list?”

  “Listen, have a run-through on the computer to see what name-links it comes up with. Of course, it could well be that he’s not a local man. This Ram guy could easily be someone from her past, not a recently ditched lover. We’ve simply got to get more information about Corinne Saxon’s background before she turned up at Streatfield Park.”

  “We’re trying every lead we can think of, guv.”

  “Well, try harder. I think I’ll slip across to the hotel and have another word with Admiral Fortescue. I’ve always had the feeling that he hasn’t come totally clean with us. It’s just possible he knows something that would point us to the identity of our Mr. Ram.”

  * * * *

  “The coppers have found out what happened to her car,” announced Larkin breathlessly, spotting Labrosse coming out of the hotel library. “Someone bloody nicked it.”

  The Swiss stopped in his tracks, and stared. “How do you know this, Sid?”

  “That Maddox woman was telling the admiral. Heard her, I did. She said it was nicked by a bloke working for one of those organised car-theft set-ups. He just happened to spot it parked in that lane and grabbed his chance. She reckons the car will have been whipped out of the country by now.”

  Labrosse began chuckling. “Mon Dieu! We never thought of that explanation. Very convenient, too, except for the worry it’s caused us wondering where on earth it had gone. Did the police inspector have anything else to say?”

  “She was going on about them following up all kinds of leads, but it sounded like a proper load of flannel. Oh yes ... she asked the old boy if the name Ram meant anything to him. Which it didn’t.”

  “Ram? That means nothing to me, either.”

  “Nor me.”

  Labrosse chuckled again. “Let us hope
it keeps the police guessing for a nice long time.”

  “Yves, don’t you think we should ...”

  “Relax! We have nothing to fear. And how many times must I tell you not to call me Yves? One of these days someone will overhear you. You’re just the admiral’s steward, and I’m the manager of this hotel. Mr. Labrosse to you. Remember that in future, Larkin, and keep your place.”

  He strode off along the empty corridor. Larkin watched his departing back with troubled eyes. Bitter eyes.

  * * * *

  Towards the end of Sunday afternoon Kate sat in her makeshift office with a cup of tea that had just been brought to her. Being a changing room, the window here was of frosted glass, but she’d opened the top ventilator. Through the narrow slit she had a view of the clock on the stable tower. Its gilt hands glinting in the sunlight said four fifty-two. Which made it three minutes slow, she saw, glancing down at her wristwatch.

  Earlier, there had been a flurry of excitement when the computer had thrown up two names that might possibly have been abbreviated to Ram. Both proved to be dead ends. Herbert Ramsden was a local vicar, on file because he’d been invited to the hotel’s launch party, Not only was he a pillar of the community, but discreet enquiries had established that he’d spent the afternoon of Corinne Saxon’s death conducting a funeral service, afterwards adjourning to the home of the deceased for baked meats with the family. Then there’d been Hiram G. Ledbetter, from Milwaukee, a guest with his wife at Streatfield Park for a few days just after the hotel opened. The Milwaukee police department came up speedily with the information that on the day of the murder Hiram G. had been right there at his home in town, resting up a broken ankle sustained on the golf course.

  So what now? Kate took a sip of tea every now and then. The thought she’d held at bay all day had begun to gnaw at her brain. She still needed to talk to Richard Gower, because he had known the murder victim. Had at one time been intimate with her.

  Kate didn’t suspect Richard, of course she didn’t; she never had done. Even so, it had come as a relief when the time limits of Corinne’s death were established, to realise that Richard had an excellent alibi.