Casey called to him, 'A bit late for gardening work.’
‘Yeah. We're running late. We're just dumping the turf for now and will set to and lay it in the morning.’ He disappeared through the gate after the other men. They were quickly back and all three piled into the lorry and headed off.
Shazia Khan, the female officer whom Casey had left behind with Mrs Oliver to fend off reporters, had since been relieved and, after he'd had a few words with her replacement, Casey made for the drawing room, knocked on the door and entered at the ‘Come in’ invitation.
Mrs Oliver didn't look as well-groomed as she had on their previous visit. Understandable if the effort required to make herself presentable was too much. As Casey knew, many of the recently bereaved let themselves go for a time. Her eyes were red-rimmed, too, he noticed. The reality of her husband's death was clearly sinking in. She seemed brittle, with a distant air about her as if she wasn't really taking much notice of anything any longer.
‘I'm sorry to bother you again so soon, Mrs Oliver,’ Casey began once they were seated in the over-heated drawing room.
She came out of her reverie to say in a firm voice, ‘Don't be, Chief Inspector. You must “bother” me, as you call it, as often as you need. As Gus's wife—' she grimaced and corrected herself. ‘As Gus's widow, I understand you have a job to do. I expect nothing less and neither would Gus.' She found a shadowy smile and added, 'Gus would probably haunt me if I let you get away with a less than rigorous investigation into his death. And rightly so.’
Casey inclined his head in acknowledgement. ‘It's just a few more questions and then we'll leave you in peace. If you're sure you feel ready to answer them?’
Tm ready. What is it you want to know?’
‘You said you last saw your husband around nine o'clock on Friday night?’
She nodded. ‘Give or take ten minutes or so.’
'I also understand that it was his custom to stay away from home for one or two nights on a regular basis?’
‘As you have discovered, Chief Inspector, my husband was a law unto himself. He never liked me to question him about his movements. I suppose, over the years, he's trained me not to do so. I learned the lesson well.’
‘So I don't suppose he gave any indication as to where he was going?’
‘No. You asked me that before,’ she said sharply. So she wasn't in quite such a faraway place as he had thought. ‘Apart from saying it was some business meeting.’ She forced a smile. ‘But then he always said that. It didn't make it true, as I have discovered.’
‘Strange time for a business meeting,’ Catt remarked, ‘even if that was just an excuse for meeting one of his lady friends.’
‘Quite. As I imagine your inquiries will reveal, his appointment that evening was unlikely to have been of a business nature. Gus had the ability to trot out excuses as well as any confidence trickster.’
Casey let her answer slide past him, but he continued his questions on the same theme. 'I get the impression that Mr Oliver was in the habit of going out on his own in the evenings quite frequently.’ Smoothly, Casey resumed. ‘You didn't mind?’
‘Over the years we evolved our own interests. Once I would have minded that he liked going out without me, but those days are long gone. Besides, I wouldn't have wanted to play gooseberry while he romanced his latest woman. I suppose you can say we slipped into a routine, one that suited both of us to a degree. Gus has always been gregarious; he thought an evening wasted if he wasn't socializing. I'm rather reserved and not keen on social gatherings so we compromised. As long as I accompanied him to important functions he was happy for me to stay home the rest of the time.’
‘Still, it must have been lonely for you here on your own, night after night.’
‘Not really. I'm quite a self-contained woman. And, as I said, I have my own interests.’
Casey paused briefly before he returned to the painful subject of her husband's infidelities. ‘You said that you knew about your husband's affairs and accepted them.’
She nodded. 'I can see that it must seem a strange thing for a wife to accept. But it has been the normal thing in our marriage for many years now. Gus was a very—' she hesitated before selecting the word — ‘athletic man. Very physical. Whereas I have always been more inclined to cerebral pursuits.’ She gave a tiny shrug. 'I suppose, in that way, we were ill-matched.’ She nodded towards the floor to ceiling bookcases that lined the fireplace walls at both ends of the large room. The shelves were so tight-packed that it would be only with difficulty that one would be able to prise a book from the clutch of its neighbours.
A quick glance over some of the titles certainly indicated that their owner had an intellectual inclination. There was little fiction, Casey saw, but there were shelves on sociology and psychology, which Mrs Oliver explained she had studied at university.
She had gone to Durham, which, she told them, was where she had met her husband.
‘It was quite a surprise for his crowd when we got together.’ She gave a short laugh. 'I confess, it was quite a surprise to me, too. Gus was, I suppose, what is nowadays termed an “Alpha Male”, even when he was young.’
Casey nodded, then drew her back to the point. ‘We have reason to believe your husband died some time on the evening he left here; before midnight rather than after. He certainly didn't die in that alley.’ Dr Merriman had been quite clear on this point. ‘It's plain that someone took a risk in moving him. I'm afraid I have to ask everyone where they were from nine on the Friday evening to around midnight and from six to seven thirty on Monday morning, between which hours we have reason to believe he was dumped in the alley.’
She looked shocked to be asked such a question. But then she nodded slowly, as if accepting his right to ask it of her. 'I was at home during both relevant times, Chief Inspector. On the Friday evening I was alone, but as far as the Monday goes, I suppose I have a witness. Mrs Clarke, Mrs Mary Clarke, my cleaning lady was here.’
'I see. What time did she start work?’
‘She was here just before six and worked for three hours. She's an early bird, like me, and likes to get started on her chores as soon in the day as possible. We're a perfect match in that way and I fit in nicely with her more lie-abed customers. She always starts her working day here and then goes on to clean the houses of the lie-abeds afterwards. She has her own key so can let herself in without disturbing me if I'm busy.’
Once he had obtained the cleaning lady's address, Casey decided to leave it there. He would question this Mrs Clarke and get her version of events for the Monday morning when Gus Oliver's body was found. But if she confirmed that Alice Oliver was at home when she arrived and didn't leave the house during the following hour and a half it looked like Mrs Oliver was in the clear — at least as far as dumping the body was concerned. And as it seemed certain that Oliver was murdered and later dumped by the same person, that would appear to exonerate her from both.
But, he reflected, as he stood up, thanked her for her time and followed Catt out, they still had enough other potential suspects to keep them busy.
Mrs Clarke, Alice Oliver's cleaning lady, lived in a tiny terraced house about five minutes' walk away from Alice Oliver. She confirmed what Mrs Oliver had told them. The house was as neat as a newly planted flowerbed, with a place for everything and everything in its place. It certainly seemed to sum up Mary Clarke's attitude to housework.
She was a stout woman, over retirement age and looking it, with work-worn hands and a vaguely resentful manner.
As they followed her along the short, narrow hall to the back kitchen, Casey asked, ‘Have you worked for Mrs Oliver for long?’
She invited them to sit, her lips pursing slightly as she watched the two big policemen as if annoyed at how untidy they made her very clean and well-scrubbed kitchen. 'I suppose you want tea?’ she asked.
They both nodded and thanked her as she turned away to fill the kettle.
‘I've worked for Mrs Oliv
er for coming up three years now. Since just before I was divorced,’ she told them as she crossed to the fridge and took the milk out. It was in a much polished silver jug, which she placed on the table before bringing out the sugar. 'A very nice lady, Mrs Oliver, very considerate.’
She made the tea and brought it and fine bone china cups and saucers to the table before she sat down. She had said nothing about Gus Oliver, Casey noticed, but then, he supposed she could rarely have seen the man during her working hours as she went on to reveal that Gus Oliver had generally had a working breakfast in his study, which his wife prepared and where he was not to be disturbed.
‘You got on well with Mrs Oliver. How about Mr Oliver? I know you said you saw little of him, but you must have gained some impression.’
Mrs Clarke sniffed, stirred the pot and poured the tea. ‘It's not for me to speak ill of the dead. I cleaned for them, that's all. I wasn't invited to their dinner parties. As long as I was left to get on with my work without interference — and I was — we generally got along just fine.’ She reached for a washing-up sponge from the sink tidy and ran it over the table where Catt had spilled a few drops of tea from his dainty cup, before she added, 'I like my routines, Chief Inspector. I don't like them upset. Mrs Oliver understands that. Not like some of my ladies.’
‘And Mr Oliver?’
‘As I said, I didn't see much of him. He didn't interfere, if that's what you mean.’
She seemed reluctant to discuss Gus Oliver. Perhaps she hadn't liked the man and given her quoted adage about not liking to speak ill of the dead, she preferred to say as little as possible. If there was any ill-speaking due it was clear that Mrs Clarke didn't intend to break her silence on the matter, even if her manner spoke volumes.
‘You saw Mrs Oliver on Monday morning?’
'Oh yes. She was up when I arrived just before six. I was in the kitchen giving the cupboards a good clean out. I could hear her computer printing out. It's rather an old-fashioned one and makes quite a bit of noise. Like me, Mrs Oliver is a lady who dislikes wasting time. She keeps herself very busy. Unsurprising, of course, with—' she broke off abruptly before she said anything incriminating.
Had she been going to say ‘with a husband like him’? Casey wondered.
‘You saw her? You didn't just hear her printer?’
‘Of course I saw her.’ Mrs Clarke bridled at the question. ‘You surely can't suspect Mrs Oliver of murder? She's a fine lady. Besides, she came downstairs about seven o'clock and made us both some tea. She didn't go out. I'd have seen her as the kitchen faces the front door and the back door is in the kitchen. I can see the whole of the back garden from there so I would have seen her if she'd gone out through the patio doors in the lounge.’ She sat back, with an expression that said ‘Make something of that if you can’ etched clearly on her face.
That let Alice Oliver pretty well off the hook when it came to dumping the body, Casey acknowledged. According to Cedric Abernethy, there had been no body in the alley when he had left home to walk the dog just before six on Monday morning.
‘We'll need you to come to the station to make a formal statement,’ he told her.
‘When? Only, as I told you, I have my routines. My days are pretty full with all my ladies. If I'm late getting to one it will throw my entire day out.’
‘Fit it in at a time to suit you. Let us know when and we can send a car to collect you.’
‘That won't be necessary. I have my own car. I learned to drive after my husband left me. It's only a cheap little runabout, but it does me. Now—' she glanced at the clock on the wall —. 'I need to get on. I promised Mrs Townsend that I'd give her spare room a good do before her visitors arrive and I'm keen to get on with it.’
She followed them out and bustled hurriedly off to her car.
‘Amazing what some people can get enthusiastic about,’ Catt remarked as they climbed into their own car. ‘Would you ever feel that eager to sort out a spare room? Particularly one that wasn't even your own?’
Casey smiled. And although he liked a tidy home — a trait clearly not inherited from his parents — he said, 'I can think of other pursuits that would be more welcome. But her evidence seems pretty conclusive, so that's one suspect down and seven to go. By the way, I was going to ask you if you've had any more news from your friend on the Lincolnshire force.’
‘Yeah. I texted him while you were on the phone to your parents.’ Catt put the car into gear and pulled away from the kerb. ‘Meant to tell you. Anyway, that couple, Honey and Ché Farrer, who left your parents' smallholding a while back, are out of the running for DaisyMay's murder at least. They both have rock-solid alibis. So even if they can't recall exactly where they were or what they were doing around the time we've roughly estimated that Kris Callender died — and, surprise, surprise, they claim to have left before it occurred — it seems unlikely they had anything to do with that killing either, seeing as you're convinced the two deaths are connected.’
Casey wasn't convinced of that, not completely, though it seemed most likely. But for two murders to occur within a few months of each other and amongst such a small circle seemed too much of a coincidence for them not to be connected.
‘Thanks, ThomCatt. You do know how much I appreciate your input on this, don't you?’
Concentrating on the road ahead, Casey sensed rather than saw Catt's grin.
‘That's all right, boss. Don't sweat it. Maybe you can do the same for me one day?’
That didn't seem likely. As an orphan, Thomas Catt had been spared the parental traumas that currently rocked Casey's world.
When Casey rang Moon the next evening, she reported that all the police had now departed. ‘Even the runty young one they had posted at the gate.’
‘You're sure?’ Casey questioned. ‘There's not any still lingering in one of the back lanes to watch the comings and goings?’
‘No. I sent one of the boys out on his bike to scout around. They've definitely gone.’
‘In that case, maybe it would be a good time for me to pay another visit. I need to speak to everyone again; maybe a few memories and tongues will have loosened in the interim. I won't arrive till fairly late, as I have another couple of interviews on the Oliver murder to fit in before I can drive up to your place.’ The first was with Roger and Amanda Meredith — Amanda being another of Gus Oliver's multiplicity of lovers. 'I should be with you some time after ten.’ He paused, then asked, ‘Have there been any further developments?’
‘There's been no more murders, if that's what you mean.’
That hadn't been Casey's meaning, but he was relieved to hear it all the same.
‘How did Star bear up during the questioning?’ He'd already asked this question several times, but Moon was patient with him and simply repeated what she'd already told him.
‘He didn't let anything slip. But you know Star, with a memory as poor as his, he wouldn't have been able to even if he'd wanted to.’
That was true. Casey let the knowledge comfort him. If Star managed to complete a sentence more than a few words long it would be the first time in several years.
‘Anyway, I'll say goodnight for now. Just don't let anything slip that you haven't already told the police. And make sure Star knows he's to say as little as possible if — when — the police return.’
‘You said. You worry too much, Willow Tree. I've already told you we don't know anything about Kris or DaisyMay's deaths, so we can't say anything.’
As reassured as he was likely to be, Casey bade his mother a second goodnight, reminded her he'd see her later and ended the call.
Chapter Eleven
Like an onion, King's Langley was made up of a number of layers, with the medieval centre, then the odd Tudor merchant's house and Georgian rows beyond them and then the Victorian terraces. The Merediths' house was situated on the more leafy outskirts of the town, where space was at less of a premium.
They lived in some splendour. Theirs was a detached Ed
wardian house, set in spacious grounds which contained a garage that looked large enough to accommodate four cars, as well as other assorted outbuildings. One of these was a stable; the head of an inquisitive chestnut horse stared disdainfully at them over the door.
‘Snooty looking bugger. Wonder what he thinks he's got that makes him look down his nose at us,’ Catt complained.
‘Centuries of breeding, probably.’
'I was bred. We were all bred,’ Catt pointed out. ‘Though I suppose his mum stayed around long enough to bring him up, unlike mine. Probably just as well mine buggered off if that's what having a mum around does to your expression.’
‘Forget the horse, ThomCatt, and concentrate your mind on the interviews.’
According to what Catt had learned when he had questioned Mrs Meredith, her husband worked as a self-employed consultant in the financial services industry. To judge from the house, it was a profitable line.
‘Nice work if you can get it, hey?' said Catt. ‘This pair have a lot to lose if one or both of them turn out to be Oliver's murderer. Reckon we can expect a few porkies here.’
Mrs Meredith, who answered the door, turned out to be small, blonde, dainty and very feminine. Casey, for whom this was the first meeting with any of Oliver's lovers, wondered if she was the type Gus Oliver normally went for. Oliver's wife was a far cry from Amanda Meredith, being tall and edging into plumpness. She was also rather plain, but she was transformed when she smiled. Perhaps, in their early days together, Oliver had made her smile a lot.
Mrs Meredith led them into a drawing room that ran the whole length of the house. It was furnished in an ultra-feminine style, with lots of flounces on the chintz armchairs and settees. Altogether, it was a bit overpowering. Casey found himself wondering how her husband stood it. Perhaps, to compensate, he kept his study at the top of the house austerely masculine.
‘Please sit down, gentlemen. I've called my husband down from his office and he'll be with us presently. Can I get you some tea? Or coffee?’
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