“Why don’t you listen to your wife, West? She has twice your brains.” He left quickly, dodging any comeback Ted might hurl at him.
As the front door slammed, Ted said viciously, “He still thinks he’s a cut above me, even though he got the push.”
“Oh come on, love. Bruce means no harm.”
Ted threw her a suspicious glance. “Fancy him do you? Is that it?”
“Oh, Ted.” She came and clung to her husband seductively, her hands roaming. “You’re enough for me. You do believe that, don’t you, you daft thing?”
He pushed her away. “Leave off, Linda. Go and see to my breakfast. I got to get back to the horses.”
“Oh, bugger the bloody horses.”
But when she put bacon and sausages in front of him, he seemed to have lost his appetite. He shoved the plate aside after a couple of mouthfuls and stood up.
Alone, Linda listened to her husband’s footsteps crossing to the stable yard. For a while she stood motionless, then she went through to the small front parlour. Under a corner of the carpet square was a short length of loose floorboard. She prised it up and felt around in the dark space underneath. Drawing out a large brown envelope, she spilled its contents on the carpet. A chased silver snuffbox, a gold hunter watch, a pair of silver earrings, and a ring ... a far grander ring than the one Aunt Daisy had bequeathed to her. The ice-blue sparkle of diamonds flashed in a thin shaft of sunlight from the window; the large emerald in the centre was a glow of green fire. Linda slipped the ring on her finger as she gazed at it lovingly, longingly, fearfully. Then, with a sigh, she took it off and replaced her little hoard in the envelope, tucking it even deeper into the space under the joists.
Chapter Two
Converted from a row of seventeenth-century almshouses, the Chipping Bassett police station was horrendously inconvenient. The quickly improvised Incident Room was a suite of dark offices (once bedrooms) leading off a dank-smelling passage. To provide sustenance for the army of officers who would be coming and going, the nearby Crusty Loaf Cafe had been called in to augment the station’s meagre catering facilities.
By late morning an all-stations hunt for the hit-and-run car was in progress. All garages with repair facilities had been alerted to be on the lookout. Scenes of Crime had narrowed the target very considerably. According to them it was a fairly heavy vehicle with rear-wheel drive and, from minute chips found on the victim’s body, with dark blue paintwork. The vehicle would show signs of impact damage at bumper level, possibly the rear wheel arches would be spattered with mud (pale brown) and torn grass. Most revealing of all, something that would give almost positive identification, would be the tyres—a Dunlop radial on the offside front wheel, and Pirellis on the other three.
“It gives us something to go on,” Detective Superintendent “Jolly” Joliffe had said, when Kate reported to him on the phone. He’d been dubbed Jolly when he first joined the South Midlands Force over thirty years ago, on account of a permanently lugubrious expression which, helped along by a ponderous wit, concealed an undoubted sharpness of mind. Kate felt a proprietorial interest in his nickname, it having been coined by her late father, then a sergeant. As a small girl, she’d often heard him chuckling with her mother about this grim-visaged but astute young PC.
“Let’s hope,” Jolly added now, “that it’s a local vehicle we’re looking for.”
“I’ve a strong feeling that it is, sir.”
“I prefer facts to feelings, Chief Inspector. What is the situation regarding the husband?”
“I’m expecting the Mets to report back anytime now.”
As Kate had hoped, the keyholder at Precision Plastics, the works foreman, had come up with the name of Latimer’s London hotel—the Cranbourne in Kensington. “I’m arranging to have him escorted back here.”
“I seem to recall meeting Matthew Latimer once,” the superintendent said ruminatively. “Quite a charmer where you ladies are concerned. So do watch yourself, Mrs. Maddox, when you talk to him.”
Nice and cool, Kate. “I’ll try my level best not to let him turn my head, sir.”
Did he detect the sarcasm? If so, he let it ride. “Forewarned is forearmed, eh? Well now, you’d better get cracking.”
Kate admired the way she put down the phone without the faintest whisper of temper.
She was snatching a cheese roll and a cup of coffee at her desk when she received word that Latimer would be arriving home in fifteen minutes. She dug out Sergeant Boulter, who was stretching the resources of the Crusty Loaf to the limit with a plate of bacon and egg, sausage, beans and chips. Kate gave him five minutes before setting out for Hambledon Grange.
“You’d have to be loaded to the eyeballs to live in a place like this,” Boulter commented, gazing around with the comfortable eye of a satisfied inner man.
“You know what they say, Sergeant, money doesn’t buy happiness.”
“So let’s be miserable in comfort. Myself, though, if I won the pools I’d go for somewhere a bit more up to date. This place must go back to the year dot.”
“The central facade would be Elizabethan. The bays on either side I’d put about a century later.”
“Hey, you know about architecture, ma’am?”
“Just enough to realize how little I really know. It was my husband’s hobby.”
The sound of an approaching car obtruded on the hush. It appeared round the bend of the driveway a few moments later and drew up behind theirs. A uniformed constable jumped out and held open the rear door for the man inside to get out. To Kate’s eyes Matthew Latimer appeared exactly as one would expect a husband to look at a time of sudden bereavement; shocked, numbed, bewildered. Was it all an act?
She had been told that he was a few years younger than his wife, and she put him at forty-one or two. He was quite good-looking, with wavy light brown hair swept back from his forehead, and a neat moustache. Of medium height, he carried no surplus weight, and Kate guessed that he took pride in keeping himself in shape. His grey chalk-stripe suit looked expensive.
“Good morning, Mr. Latimer. I’m Detective Chief Inspector Maddox.”
“Detective?” He seemed startled.
“A Fail to Stop fatality is a CID matter, Mr. Latimer.”
“Oh, I see ... yes, of course.” His gaze flitted from her to the sergeant, then to the house. “Er ... shall we go inside? Or ... ?”
“Yes, let’s go inside.”
While he fumbled through his pockets for his keys, Kate thanked the two Mets officers who’d escorted him, and dismissed them. Latimer had the front door open when he paused and gazed back at her uncertainly.
“Belle ... my wife, was she ... ?”
“She was killed instantly, Mr. Latimer. We have the doctor’s assurance about that.”
He remained there nodding his head in a mechanical way. “I suppose you’ll want me to ... ?”
“A formal identification will be required, Mr. Latimer, but we can postpone that for the moment.”
The house had a fine Elizabethan interior, as Kate had anticipated. As they passed through the hall, she noted a ribbed plasterwork ceiling and an elaborately carved oak staircase that rose in right-angled turns to the upper floors. A central brass lantern had been left switched on—a natural thing for a woman setting out for a walk at dusk. The drawing-room had an even finer ceiling and richly panelled walls. Three tall windows of square-leaded panes gave a view of the sunlit parkland.
“If you’d like a cup of tea or coffee,” Kate suggested, “I’m sure the sergeant could find his way to the kitchen.”
Latimer took a few seconds to respond. “A whisky, I think. And please ... have something yourselves.” He gestured to an armchair for Kate, and lowered himself into another.
“Nothing for us, thank you,” said Kate, and saw Boulter’s look of disappointment as he turned to the bar in a corner of the room. Latimer accepted the glass of whisky the sergeant poured for him, waved aside the soda siphon, and took a big gulp.<
br />
Kate observed him thoughtfully. It was an almost classic situation for murder: moneyed wife, unmoneyed (and younger) husband struggling in business. And the relationship between them, apparently, rather short on sweetness and light. Yet Matthew Latimer hadn’t personally killed his wife; the Mets reported that his alibi for the time of the murder was rock solid. Several of the Cranbourne’s staff could vouch for the fact that he’d been in the public rooms of the hotel, with a lady companion, from eight o’clock until well after ten—first in the cocktail bar and afterwards in the restaurant.
But alibis could be too perfect. Had Matthew Latimer arranged for his wife to be killed by some third party while he himself was establishing his presence a hundred miles from the scene of the crime? Against this, the Mets sergeant who’d been sent to inform him of his wife’s death reported that in his opinion Latimer was genuinely stunned by the news. At Kate’s request, no questions had been asked that might put a guilty man on his guard. For this reason, information gleaned from a chambermaid that Latimer’s lady companion had spent the night in his bedroom had not been pursued.
“Mr. Latimer, I’m sorry to have to intrude at this painful time, but it’s necessary for me to ask you a few questions. Your wife was knocked down in Reedbank Farm Lane. The evidence suggests that the incident occurred just after ten o’clock last evening. What would Mrs. Latimer have been doing at the spot at that time?”
For a moment it was as if he hadn’t heard Kate’s question. Then he gave himself a little shake and said, “She would have been taking her dog for a walk. I was told that poor Prince had also been killed.”
“That’s true. Did Mrs. Latimer always walk her dog at that time of night?”
“Oh yes. Belle ... my wife was a woman who liked to keep to a regular routine. Sharp at nine-thirty each evening she would set off to the stables on the day’s final tour of inspection, then go on for a stroll with Prince. Winter or summer, whatever the weather. Unless we had dinner guests, of course. The dog seemed to know to the minute when his walk was due.”
“She always took the same route, did she?”
“Invariably. She’d worked out a pleasant circular walk that more or less encompassed the estate.”
Beating the bounds?
Kate decided it was time to turn the heat on. “Do you know of any reason why someone should have wanted to kill Mrs. Latimer?”
“Wanted to.” He looked startled. “But ... but it was an accident.”
Kate shook her head. “No, I’m afraid not. The vehicle was driven at your wife quite deliberately.”
“I ... I can’t believe it. There must be some mistake.”
“Please try to answer my question, Mr. Latimer.”
“Your question?”
“We’re looking for a motive. Who might have wanted your wife out of the way?”
He glared at her, frowning fiercely. “Nobody. Absolutely nobody.”
“She had no enemies?”
“Not sufficient to ...” He broke off and stared at the glass in his hand.
Kate stepped the pressure up. “What sort of relationship did you have with your wife?”
Anger flared in Latimer’s eyes. “This is intolerable, what you’re suggesting. I don’t have to put up with it.” He turned to Tim Boulter, who was standing to one side of him, as if hoping that a fellow male would come to his aid.
“I’m sure you can understand,” said Kate, “that these questions have to be asked.”
Latimer pressed his lips tightly together, then gave a curt nod. “Very well. My wife and I got on perfectly well together.”
“Always?”
He shrugged. “Like any other married couple, we had the occasional tiff, but ... nothing serious.”
“Why did you go to London yesterday, Mr. Latimer?”
“Why? On business. Yes, business.”
“In connection with your firm, Precision Plastics?”
“Naturally. I had customers to see.”
“Is this a regular occurrence?”
“I have a few important customers in London whom I need to see personally. All the others I leave to my sales staff.”
“Perhaps the sergeant could have a list of the names of the people you went to see.”
Latimer snatched a quick swig of whisky, the glass rattling against his teeth. “You have no right to go around upsetting my customers. I ... I shall take this up with your superiors.”
“As you wish. Meanwhile, perhaps we can get on. Those names?”
Latimer subsided, his moment of rebellion gone. “Well, in actual fact it was only the one customer.” He gave the name and address. “I do a lot of business with him. We always have lunch together when I call on him.”
“Always? How often would this be, Mr. Latimer?”
“About ... every other week.”
“And you stay overnight in London?”
“Why shouldn’t I?”
“It wouldn’t be too far for you to return home after a lunch appointment.”
“Well, I don’t choose to. I take the opportunity while I’m in town to go to a show or a concert.”
“Did you do that on this occasion?”
“Well, actually ... no. There was nothing I particularly wanted to see.”
“So how did you spend yesterday evening, Mr. Latimer?”
“I ... er, I had dinner.”
“Alone?”
Colour came to his face with a rush. “I don’t care to answer that question.”
“Is there something you don’t wish us to discover?”
“It’s very embarrassing.”
“I’m not easily shocked, if that’s what you’re afraid of.”
“Well, if you must know, I had a lady with me. A friend. We ... had dinner together and a couple of drinks.”
“When did you meet her, Mr. Latimer? What time?”
“About seven-thirty, I think.”
“And she remained with you until when?”
Speechless seconds ticked away. Finally he muttered, “It’s sufficient to say that she was with me until well after the time the ... accident occurred.”
“Please be more precise.”
“Chief Inspector, the lady in question is ... well, I can’t allow her to be put in the invidious position of being questioned by the police.”
“We’ll be as discreet as we can, Mr. Latimer.”
He tried to challenge her with a show of defiance, but then gave in. “Oh very well. We spent the night together in my room at the hotel.”
“The lady’s name and address, sir?” asked Boulter, his pen poised over his notebook.
“It’s Sissington. Mrs. Monica Sissington. I ... I only have her phone number.”
“That’ll be sufficient, sir.” In fact the police had already obtained that name from the hotel register, as the woman had booked a separate room there. Whether or not the Putney address she’d given was correct had yet to be checked. But they’d be able to trace her through the phone number.
Kate continued, “I understand that the Hambledon estate was the property of your wife.”
“That’s right. Belle was a Stedham, you see.”
“You and Mrs. Latimer had no children? Does this mean that you inherit the estate now?”
“Belle and I never discussed the matter.”
Kate allowed herself to look incredulous. “This is a huge property, Mr. Latimer, worth many millions. Your wife made a will, I presume?”
“I believe so, yes.”
“And she didn’t divulge the contents to you, her husband?”
“We always kept our financial affairs quite separate.”
Her wealth, and his lack of it! “In that case, perhaps you will tell me the name of the solicitors who will be dealing with things.”
“Er ... Marley, Point, and Baxter.”
“They’re here in Chipping Bassett, ma’am,” Boulter put in.
“Right.” Kate stood up. “I’d better see them before talking any f
urther with you, Mr. Latimer.”
The man had a dazed, helpless look about him that tapped Kate’s sympathy. It had happened before on major crime investigations. She found herself imagining what it must feel like for someone who was totally innocent to realise he was under suspicion. For the innocent husband of a murder victim, relentless police questioning coming on top of sudden bereavement must be very hard to endure.
“Is there anyone we can get in touch with for you?” she asked, in a gentler voice. “Someone you’d like to be informed of what’s happened. A friend or relative?”
Latimer stared at her as if from a long way off, then shook his head slowly. “I’ll phone a few people later on, when I’ve had a chance to ...” He dried up.
Kate said, “I left instructions that Linda West and the two cleaning women weren’t to come to work this morning. I didn’t want anyone in the house until we’d checked it.”
“Checked it?”
“It’s possible that there might be some clue as to why your wife was killed ... signs of a break-in, perhaps. The sergeant and I could have a look round now, with your permission. Then, if you like, we’ll drop in at the Wests’ cottage as we’re leaving and tell Mrs. West to come in. I expect she could see to your meals today.”
“Er, yes ... I suppose so. Not that I shall want ...”
Their inspection of the house didn’t take long. The graciously furnished rooms, with lots of easy-to-steal valuables, all appeared to be undisturbed. Kate hadn’t really expected to find any signs of theft. In the room which the dead woman had used as a study was a large display cabinet full of silver cups and other trophies. The walls were lined with photographs; many of them, Kate realised, would have been taken by her aunt. Some were of Belle Latimer in elegant riding attire, seated astride a well-groomed horse. She was a handsome woman of refined bone structure, with deep green eyes. Her smooth blond hair she wore drawn back into a pleat that lodged beneath the brim of her black dressage hat. A handsome woman, and a proud one. A woman, Kate judged, who stood on her dignity and was very conscious of her status in society. There was no softness in her face, and no passion.
Murder in the Cotswolds Page 3
