“I happened to cop a sniper’s bullet in Gaza. My own bloody fault. He didn’t intend to hit me. I wasn’t his target.”
“You were married once, I believe. And you’re now divorced?”
“So?”
“How did it come about that you broke up with your wife?”
Gower stared at her for a few moments, then threw back his head in a short bark of laughter. “A deep-dyed vengeance plot by an embittered wife? Forget it. Marion divorced me because she was fed up with being a grass widow for months on end while I was roaming the world on foreign assignments. I can’t blame her entirely, I suppose, although she knew the score when we got married. I wasn’t willing to chuck my career and become the sort of husband she wanted to turn me into. An unadventurous chappie with a nice steady job and home every night.”
“And then you got injured and were forced to chuck it after all,” Kate said with involuntary sympathy.
“Ironic, isn’t it? But running a local rag on a shoestring budget isn’t the nice steady job that Marion had in mind. She’s found the ideal mate now, though. He’s an insurance broker. They have three kids, and they all live happily in a four-bedroomed mock-Tudor detached house in Esher with two cars in the garage.”
“You sound bitter.”
“No, I’m not. I’m glad for her. But I still shudder at the thought of what I might have been, if Marion had got her way. She had her good points, but we just weren’t meant for each other.” He gave Kate an edgeways glance. “How about you? I saw from the press handout that you’re Mrs. Maddox. Is your husband still around?”
“We’re not here to talk about me,” she said stiffly.
“Hey, I only asked.”
Kate unbent enough to say, “My husband is dead.”
“Oh. Recently?”
“Fourteen years ago.” She wanted to leave it at that, but for some reason she felt impelled to add, “Noel was killed in a hit-and-run accident.”
“I see. That explains a lot.”
“What does it explain?” she enquired coolly.
“I only meant that it explains why you feel so gut-involved in this case.”
That was much too near the truth for Kate’s liking. She said in an even voice from which she tried to remove all trace of emotion, “I’m doing my job to the best of my ability, just as I intend to do with all the other cases that are put into my hands. Personal feelings play no part in a police officer’s duties.”
He inclined his head. “Said the wrong thing, didn’t I?”
“Forget it.” Kate glanced down at her notepad, breaking the eye contact. Those intelligent dark eyes of his saw too much.
“We don’t seem to have got anywhere, do we?” he said quietly.
“How do you mean?” She glanced up at him with challenge.
He sat looking at her in silence for a moment or two, his face serious. “You know, if you could put your suspicions about me on one side and begin looking elsewhere for your murderer, you’d save yourself a lot of time in the end.”
“If you weren’t responsible for Mrs. Latimer’s death and I can prove that, my time will have been well spent, won’t it?”
“How much do you really care whether I’m guilty or not?” he asked, frowning at his own words. “You’re like a hunter in pursuit of a prey. You’ll never prove that I killed Belle Latimer, because I didn’t. But if you can somehow stitch up a case against me, that would be fine with you, right? Another major crime neatly solved. A feather in the cap of Detective Chief Inspector Maddox. Another notch towards your next promotion. What are you aiming for? To be the first woman chief constable in history?”
Don’t let him get to you, Kate!
She said levelly, “All I want to establish is the truth. And I will, I promise you I will.”
His eyes caught hers and held them for a stretching moment. “In that event, I haven’t a thing to worry about. Correct?”
Kate said nothing, just watched him. Eventually he rose to his feet and stood awkwardly, his weight almost all on his right foot. His laugh was awkward, too.
“If and when you finally clear the stain from the Gower name and I’m no longer persona non grata, perhaps we might have that dinner together. To celebrate. Or would that offend your sense of propriety?”
Kate had no answer to that. She made a gesture that could have meant anything. With a rueful smile, Richard Cower turned away to limp to the door. Kate stopped him there, a sudden urgency in her tone.
“Find the man who phoned you, Mr. Gower, that’s the first priority. If you get any ideas about who it might have been, let me know.”
His face cleared. “Then you do believe I might be telling the truth?”
“Do you honestly think that I don’t want to?” she said, then added hastily, “Good morning to you.”
Chapter Eight
“Did you drag anything useful out of Gower?” Tim Boulter, given the tip-off about the chief inspector’s return to the Incident Room, had come to Kate’s office bearing hot coffee for them both.
“Thanks, Tim, I can just do with that.” She sipped appreciatively. “Gower is still sticking to his guns that he didn’t do it. He challenged me to pin a motive on him.”
“He’s got more front than Harrods, that one. What’s your own opinion about him, guv?”
She liked that “guv.” Oh yes, she liked it. But she didn’t like his question. She couldn’t boast anything as clear-cut as an opinion about Richard Gower. She shrugged a “don’t know” in reply, and turned her attention to the pile of new reports on her desk.
“So McLeod’s brother-in-law swears that Bruce did spend the evening of the killing with him,” she said.
“A real smart-ass, he is. Got it all off pat, even down to how many brown ales they each sank.”
“He’s lying about something, though, I’ve felt that all along. But I doubt if McLeod’s our man.” Kate turned a page. “Look at this, Tim. We were on the right track about Linda West.”
It was a report from Criminal Records on the enquiry about Linda under her maiden name of Foster. Probation for shoplifting, and she’d asked for eight other offences to be taken into account. All were items of jewellery and silver, which she’d voluntarily handed back. No evidence of any attempt to turn it into profit.
Boulter grunted. “Just for the sheer joy of possession. Small wonder she couldn’t resist pinching Belle Latimer’s emerald ring. And a few other goodies, most likely.”
“But does Ted know that his wife has a touch of the klepto? And even if he does, how would he have reacted to Belle’s accusation of theft? Could he have been so blinded with rage that he decided to kill her? I can’t really see it.”
“Slim motive for murder,” Boulter agreed.
“Running Belle down in the heat of anger is just about believable, but a carefully pre-planned murder ... no, I wouldn’t care to risk my money on it. Still, we can’t have any loose ends. Try another little friendly chat with Linda and see if you can break her story that Ted came back from the stables just after nine-thirty and stayed in for the rest of the evening.”
“Will do.”
Kate turned to the next report. “Ah yes, those friends the Latimers were having a drink with at the pub two days before Belle was killed. Major and Mrs. Carstairs.”
“A right snooty pair, those two. They shed a few crocodile tears about her death, but I think they’re laughing, really.”
“What do you read into that, Tim? Anything sinister?”
“My guess is not, but who can tell? I haven’t had a chance to write it up yet, but I dropped in at the Wagon and Horses just now and had a chat with Debra, one of the barmaids. She said the Latimers and Carstairses often met up there Sunday lunch-times, and she reckons those two women have always hated each other’s guts. But last Sunday you could have split the atmosphere down the middle.”
“Did Debra have any idea why?”
He shrugged. “She just reckons that all these rich bitches are the same.
Smiles and ‘darlings’ scattered like confetti, and ready to slide the knife in any chance they get.”
“Like that, was it? What do the Carstairses claim to have been doing on the evening Belle Latimer was killed?”
Boulter pointed to the relevant section of his report. “They said their neighbours dropped in to discuss lopping some trees on their boundary, and stayed for drinks. But Major and Mrs. Carstairs were a bit vague about what time they left.”
“Well, make sure it’s followed through. Now, I think it’s time I tackled George Prescott again and established what sort of alibi he’s got. The way things are looking, Prescott’s the one with the strongest motive. If Belle Latimer could have exposed him for financial juggling, it would have ruined him as a professional accountant.”
“Do you want me along?”
“No, I’ll handle Prescott on my own.” Kate turned another page, and flinched at the lengthy, closely typed document confronting her. It was the report on the search of Belle Latimer’s desk and files. She was about to lay it aside for closer scrutiny later when the name Samuel Wilkes caught her eye.
“The alleged land swindle,” she mused aloud. “Where’s the other swindle Sam talked about—the widow-woman? Ah, here it is, Mrs. Kathleen Axfield. Sixty-seven acres known as Bramble Farm. There was only five months between the two sales, yet Belle’s father paid her a lot more per acre than he paid poor old Sam. Could her land have been worth so much more than his?”
“Happen he was paying for considerations other than just the land.”
“Meaning?” demanded Kate tightly.
“Maybe she was a very attractive widow.”
“Oh for God’s sake, you men make me sick.”
But even that contemptuous slap-down didn’t wipe the smirk off Boulter’s face.
* * * *
Kate dropped in on Prescott at his office unannounced, wanting to catch him off guard. He wasn’t pleased to see her, but he managed to put on a display of courtesy, his previous fury hidden if not gone. As he went through the ritual of inviting her to sit down and offering coffee, she could see that he was wary of her, watchful. That he was a man with something to hide, Kate hadn’t a doubt, and one way or another she intended to discover what that something was. A ruthless, deliberate hit-and-run? Or just some shabby secret involving dishonesty or sex? That word shabby again. It fitted George Prescott, she thought.
“No coffee, thank you,” she said. “I’m trying to establish where everybody in any way connected with Mrs. Latimer happened to be on the evening of her death. It’s a matter of clarification, you understand? So if you could cast your mind back to last Tuesday evening ...”
Kate achieved eyeball-to-eyeball confrontation for only a moment before Prescott turned away. She had a feeling, though, that he was eager to talk but was holding himself back to avoid seeming too eager.
“Tuesday ... let me see, now.” He flickered a look at his desk diary as if for assistance. “That must have been the evening I popped over to see my sister Joan. I visit her as often as I can. The poor dear is all alone in the world, you see, except for me.”
“Where does your sister live, Mr. Prescott?”
“Joan has a cottage at Peterscombe. Do you know the village, it’s about five miles from here? She bought the little place when she retired three or four years ago.”
“And on the evening in question you arrived there at what time?”
“Well now.” He held his chin in a pondering pose. “Let me think ... it would have been about seven-thirty. No ... just a minute, I remember hearing the seven o’clock pips on the car radio as I drew up outside.”
“And you remained with your sister until when?”
“About eleven, I’d say. Or just before. I was back home at a quarter past, I remember.”
“Your sister can confirm this, I take it?”
Remembering Prescott’s outburst on her previous visit, Kate expected him to put on a show of resentment that his word would be checked up on. But he just said, with even a look of mild triumph on his face, “If you feel it necessary to ask her, Chief Inspector, I’m sure that Joan will confirm every word I’ve told you.”
You can bet on it, Kate!
“May I have your sister’s address, please?”
“It’s a cottage called Meadow View. A few yards past the church in Peterscombe.”
Kate stood up. “I needn’t trouble you any further for the moment, Mr. Prescott. I may be in touch again, but meantime thank you for your help.”
He was obviously thankful that it had all been so painless. “You’re welcome, Chief Inspector. I fully understand that you have your job to do.”
Kate had noted the ashtray on his desk. Solid silver, it looked. So he was a good customer for the bookie. A good customer who’d lately got in too deep, way over his head? She’d have to get that angle sorted.
* * * *
Kate headed her car for Peterscombe, pausing en route for a quick sandwich at a pub called the Half Moon. At the address Prescott had given her, she held out her warrant card and introduced herself to the woman who came to the door. Miss Prescott didn’t react with alarm that a detective chief inspector should be calling on her, nor with surprise that the DCI should be a woman. Well primed, obviously, by Brother George. But that didn’t stop her being as nervous as hell. Her whole body was tense, and a muscle beneath her eye was twitching.
“Do come in, Chief Inspector.” She was almost eager.
Kate glanced around admiringly, holding back from the big question. “What a wonderful collection of brass you have. And you keep it all so beautifully polished.”
“Yes, I love brass,” Joan Prescott confided. “I’ve been collecting it all my life.”
“This lot must be quite valuable.”
“Well ... I don’t know about that. But it’s very precious to me.”
“Then you ought to have adequate security. I notice that you haven’t locks on your windows, so it wouldn’t be difficult for a thief to break in.” Kate smiled pleasantly. “Would you like me to ask the Crime Prevention officer to call and advise you?”
Miss Prescott looked thoroughly thrown by this unexpected line of conversation. “Oh ... do you think it’s necessary?”
“Better be safe than sorry, don’t you agree?” In the same breath Kate went on, “I wanted to ask about your brother, Mr. George Prescott.”
“Oh yes, dear Georgie. How can I help you, Chief Inspector?” Relief at having finally got to the nitty-gritty shone from every pore of her guileless face.
“I understand from your brother that he visited you one evening last week. Which evening was it?”
“Tuesday,” Miss Prescott said at once.
“Are you absolutely sure about that?”
“Yes, absolutely sure. I remember because ... well, because a visit from George is a special occasion for me.”
“Oh? I gathered that he came to see you quite regularly.”
“Yes, yes he does, very regularly. But you see, I don’t get many visitors, Chief Inspector. That’s why having someone here is a special occasion. Particularly when it’s dear Georgie. And last Tuesday ... I made a steak and kidney pie for supper, that’s a favourite of his. Then we played Scrabble—till nearly eleven.”
Out had come the whole pathetic little fiction in one dollop. Not clever! Kate could see beads of perspiration on the woman’s upper lip. She turned chatty. “It must be a very quiet life for you, Miss Prescott, living in a small village.”
“I wouldn’t say that. There are all sorts of activities going on in Peterscombe.”
“Really? Things to do with the church and the WI, I expect?”
“Oh, lots more than that. We’re lucky to have a fine village hall, and that’s used almost every day for something or other. Each afternoon during the week there’s the Old Folks Club—I help out at that quite often, serving teas and so on. And in the evenings we have whist drives and things, and various classes. Then every other Friday t
here’s a painting course I go to, and the second Tuesday of each month the Literary Society has a meeting with a guest speaker. That’s always most enjoyable. So you see, I lead quite a busy life.”
The second Tuesday! “The Literary Society sounds interesting,” Kate said. “Who did you have to speak last time?”
“A Mr. Andrew Crowther, who’s written a fascinating book about his travels in Peru. He was saying that—”
“But surely, that would have been the evening your brother was here?”
“Oh dear!” Joan Prescott went chalky pale. She said hastily, “Of course, I didn’t go myself that time. Someone told me ... told me all about Mr. Crowther’s talk.”
“Miss Prescott, I’d only need to speak to one or two other members of the Literary Society and ask if you were there or not. Do you really want that?”
Tears glittered in her eyes. “You ... you tricked me.”
“Just as you were trying to trick me. What made you lie?”
“I ... I had to. My brother said I must, to stop you from suspecting him.”
“Suspecting him of what?”
Distress made it difficult for Joan Prescott to speak. She said between big choking swallows, “Of ... whatever it is you’re asking him questions about. He didn’t do it.”
“If you don’t know what it is, how can you know that he didn’t do it?”
“Because my brother couldn’t do anything bad. Oh, he can be naughty sometimes, and wilful ... but not bad.”
She was talking of him as though of a child. Naughty Georgie! The eternally devoted older sister.
“You look very pale, Miss Prescott. Don’t you think you should sit down? Perhaps I could make you a cup of tea.”
She did sit, but refused the offer of tea. Her hands fluttered vaguely. “A ... a glass of wine, perhaps. If you’d be so kind, there’s a bottle of my parsnip in the cupboard there.”
Kate poured a generous measure in a blue-stemmed wineglass, and Joan Prescott took several long sips. Poor soul, it was beginning to look as though she had a much greater shock to come. If her adored brother was charged with murder, she would be utterly devastated.
Murder in the Cotswolds Page 11
