When she returned, Boulter had finished his phone call. There was a grim look on his face.
“Fancy a drink, Kate?” he asked, taking her by surprise. That hadn’t been on their agenda.
Why not? She needed to unwind. Besides, she had a feeling that Boulter was in need of a shoulder to cry on.
“Okay, Tim. Just one. The Market Inn suit you?”
He shrugged, indifferent about where they went.
Downstairs, as they reached the vestibule, the man at the desk glanced up.
“Ah, ma’am, I thought I’d missed you. Message just received from the hospital. Admiral Fortescue passed away fifteen minutes ago. Peacefully, they said to tell you, in his sleep.”
“Thanks, Barry.”
She and Boulter left the building, to walk the short distance to the pub.
“The old boy willed himself dead, Tim,” she observed sombrely as they fell into step. “It almost amounts to suicide.”
“Sensible man.” Boulter’s voice was bitter. “Saved himself from facing a murder rap, hasn’t he?”
“I doubt if it was for himself, Tim. By nature the admiral was a fighter. More likely he was thinking of his son ... all the scandal, and the embarrassment a prolonged trial would cause Dominic and his family.”
“And now, I suppose, the son and heir will flog off the ancestral home for an almighty packet, like Larkin said he would, and hot-foot it back to the U.S.A. Sod the precious Fortescue inheritance his old man was trying to save for him. The lucky bastard.”
Kate waited until they were seated, with the drinks Boulter had fetched from the bar in front of them. Then, she said, “Okay, Tim, let’s have it. What’s eating you?”
“Julie’s bloody walked out and left me, hasn’t she?” he burst out.
“You mean,” Kate said, dismayed by the rage boiling inside him, “that she’s gone to stay with her sister again?”
“Yep. That was her on the phone just now. But this time she’s not coming back. A trial separation, she calls it.” He snorted. “Trial is about right when those two sisters get their heads together—with me in the dock. I’ve never done a damn thing right, according to that bloody Brenda. Her and her prick of a husband who’s got a cosy little nine-to-fiver at the Town Hall. They’re who put Julie up to it, that’s for sure.”
“What suddenly brought this on?” Kate asked in a carefully neutral voice.
“She’s been thinking things over all day, she said, and she’s realised that coming back was a mistake. There was no future for us together.” Boulter gave a hollow laugh. “It’s all down to me, according to her. All my bloody fault. Just because I’m a normal human being and don’t match up to the crazy fantasy she’s got in her head of the perfect husband. I can’t ever be relied on, I’m always getting home late, I hardly see the children, I never take her out, I forget birthdays and anniversaries, I’m bad-tempered and slovenly. You name it, I’ve bloody got it or done it.”
“I’m very sorry, Tim. Really sorry. But don’t you think it’s possible that Julie has a point? I mean, do you ever try to see things from her point of view?”
The black look he shot her said, You too? Traitor.
Kate went on, “Okay, if you want to be left alone and nurse your grievances about the state of matrimony, go right ahead. But if you want to get your wife and children back, you’d better do some hard thinking. Some of Julie’s criticisms you can’t do much about, they come with the job, but she’s intelligent enough to know that. With other things, though, I think you could make a bit more effort to match up to what Julie wants—what every woman wants—from her husband. A bit more understanding. A bit more attention. A bit more romance in your relationship.”
Kate wondered if she’d pushed her nose in too far where it wasn’t wanted, but when he didn’t smack her down she felt emboldened to continue. She was fond of Tim Boulter. She liked his wife, too, even though Julie had made it very clear that she disliked and resented Chief Inspector Kate Maddox. As for the two children, Mandy and Sharon, they were really nice youngsters. The Boulters had all the ingredients to be a happy little family. Kate, having lost her own chance of family happiness through a cruel stroke of fate, hated to see so much potential thrown away for want of effort.
“Your marriage is worth saving, Tim. Worth fighting for. Why not give it a try?”
He shrugged petulantly. “It’s not up to me, is it? Julie’s the one who walked out.”
“I know, but you can go and see her, can’t you? You’ll want to see the children, anyway. Talk things over with Julie and try to sort out your differences. Be reasonable, and ...”
“Reasonable? She doesn’t know the meaning of the word.”
“I think you’d find she does. I think you’d find that Julie will respond if you show her that you’re willing to try, too. Always assuming, of course, that you really do want her back.”
There was pain and darkness in his eyes. “Sometimes I think I hate her guts. That if I don’t ever see her again it’ll be too soon. But then ... oh, I don’t know. It’s going to be hell without her and the kids.”
Fretting over the Boulters’ problems as she drove home, Kate reflected irritably that any of her male colleagues would take the sensible view that so long as his work wasn’t affected, the sergeant’s personal life was entirely his own business. Being a woman was a bloody curse sometimes.
She’d been busy handing out sage advice to Tim Boulter, but she still had a repair job to do on her own relationship. As things were, she faced going back to an empty home, when she might have been returning to the welcoming arms of someone she loved. The word caught Kate by surprise and she thrust it out of her mind. She was in no mood to analyse her feelings towards Richard just now.
She turned in at the gates of the stable conversion, and rolled to a standstill. Getting out, she spotted among the cars parked in the forecourt one that was joltingly familiar. Richard’s blue Volvo. What did this mean? She went over to investigate and found Richard sitting behind the wheel, fast asleep.
She reached in through the open window and shook him by the shoulder.
“What the hell are you doing here?” she demanded as he woke, her voice belligerent.
He blinked at her in the dim light that seeped out from behind the drawn curtains of the other flats. “Waiting for you, what else?”
“But ... why?” Fear gripped her suddenly. “Has something happened to Felix?”
“Calm down,” said Richard, climbing out of the car. “Felix is doing fine, as you saw for yourself this evening. But she phoned me about an hour ago to say she thought I’d like to know that you’ve solved your case.”
“Felix says altogether too much.”
“But is she right?”
“As a matter of fact, yes. That’s why I’m so late home, wrapping things up.”
Richard was silent for a countable number of seconds. Then he put a hand up and laid it against her cheek.
“We can’t talk out here,” he said. “Let’s go inside.”
Unsteadily, Kate found her key and opened the front door. Richard waited without speaking while she switched on lights and drew the curtains in her living room. When at length he spoke Kate could read an underlying challenge in his voice, a hint of lingering anger and resentment.
“Are you going to tell me about it now? Who was it killed Corinne?”
Did he have to pressure her like this? It wasn’t the right moment. And then Kate suddenly knew it never would be the right moment. Ought she to admit to Richard that she’d felt jealous of Corinne Saxon ever since he’d first told her of their former relationship? Or did he already know that; had he guessed? What he couldn’t know about was the shaming spark of satisfaction she’d felt on recognising the murder victim as her imagined rival. She had carried the guilt of that with her all through this enquiry. It would take a long time to erase it from her mind.
“It was Adrian Berger, the architect,” she said, and then, “I need a drink, Richard
.”
“I’ll get it. You sit down.”
Kate flopped onto one end of the long sofa, kicking off her shoes, while Richard fetched the whisky bottle and two glasses, putting them on the low coffee table in easy reach. He poured a good measure for them each, handed Kate hers, then sat down too—but at the far end, away from her.
“Adrian Berger,” he said. “I never guessed it would turn out to be him. Why, for God’s sake?”
“Jealousy. He was crazy about her. They’d been lovers, and Corinne dropped him for another man.”
Richard nodded, accepting that. “But why the disgusting farce of making it look like rape?”
“No, that wasn’t him, that was Labrosse.”
“What?”
Kate told him the whole story. The only significant detail she omitted was a report from London’s Met that had come in this evening in response to a request for any information about Corinne Saxon’s recent life prior to her turning up at Streatfield Park. It appeared that for the past few years she had worked as what could only be called a high-class call girl. Telling Richard that would only distress him.
By the time Kate had finished they were on their third whisky. More time went by as they sat there, still well apart on the sofa. But the emotional distance that had separated them was gone, Kate knew that.
Relaxed, suddenly feeling happy, she stretched her arms above her head and gave a huge yawn.
“Bed is the place for tired people,” Richard suggested.
“Mmm,” she sighed dreamily.
He pushed himself to his feet, a slightly awkward movement with his stiff leg.
“Want me to carry you?”
She grinned. “Oh, very macho. I’m supposed to be a liberated woman, buster.”
“Have it your way, walk on your own two legs if you must.”
She lugged herself up. Richard crossed to her bookshelves and spent a minute selecting a few volumes.
“What’s that in aid of?” Kate demanded.
“A few works of reference, to see you through the night.”
“Put them down at once,” she ordered sternly, “and come to bed. Hurry up.”
Richard dropped the handful of books onto the sofa and followed her through into the bedroom.
Copyright © 1991 by Erica Quest/Nancy Buckingham
Originally published by Doubleday/Crime Club [ISBN 0385419562]
Electronically published in 2014 by Belgrave House/Regency
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ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
No portion of this book may be reprinted in whole or in part, by printing, faxing, E-mail, copying electronically or by any other means without permission of the publisher. For more information, contact Belgrave House, 190 Belgrave Avenue, San Francisco, CA 94117-4228
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This is a work of fiction. All names in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental.
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