Murder in the Cotswolds

by Nancy Buckingham

  Or was that the way Gower was hoping her mind would work? It was still perfectly feasible that Gower had killed Prescott. But what was his motive? She was back to that same problem, and in this instance the love affair turned sour could hardly be the answer.

  “Mr. Gower,” she said tiredly, standing up to leave, “I’d like you to give us a full written statement of what you’ve just told me. Sergeant Boulter will organise it.”

  “And what then?” he demanded.

  “I’ll let you know.”

  “I’m still not under arrest?”

  “No,” she said coldly. “Not at present.”

  Back in her office, Kate seethed in fury and frustration. This was an important new development and she ought to be putting Superintendent Joliffe in the picture immediately. But she held off, hoping that something might turn up to make things a little less black for Richard Gower. She couldn’t hold off for long, though.

  Restless, unable to focus her mind, she walked the short distance to Prescott’s office. Scenes of Crime had packed up, and there was just a single uniformed man on duty. The body had been removed.

  Kate prowled around. She inspected the drawers of Prescott’s desk. They were unlocked now, and there was no visible sign that they had been tampered with. The room had nothing to tell her. Disappointed, she gave up and returned to the police station, where she encountered Tim Boulter in the corridor.

  “I’ve got Gower’s statement,” he said.

  “Anything new emerge?” Anything that would clear him, Kate meant.

  “Nothing. It looks as if we’ll have to let him go for the time being,” Boulter added regretfully.

  “He’s still here?”

  “I thought it wouldn’t do any harm to let him stew for a bit. I’ve sent him in a cup of tea.”

  On a sudden decision, knowing it was ill-judged, Kate said, “I’ll go and talk to him again.”

  “I wish you luck, ma’am.” He meant, you won’t have any luck, and ha-bloody-ha.

  Gower was sitting hunched at the small table, cradling a mug of tea. He glared at her with hostile eyes.

  “Can I go now? I have a newspaper to run.” But beneath his truculence was a discernible thread of anxiety. With good reason. He knew he was in trouble, one way or another. Big “murder” trouble, or not quite so big “illegal entry” trouble.

  Kate closed the door. “What possessed you to do such a crazy thing?” she blazed.

  “It didn’t seem so crazy at the time. As I said before, how was I to know that Prescott was going to get killed shortly after I was there?”

  “You were breaking the law. There’s no getting away from that.”

  “Oh God, spare me the sermon. One thing I learned as a foreign correspondent was that you have to take a few short cuts if you want results. Getting into Prescott’s office and searching it was petty stuff compared with some of the things I’ve had to do in my time.”

  Kate’s fury with him rose to a new height. “What you’ve done abroad is not my concern. But you’re an arrogant bastard if you think you can take the law into your own hands here. You won’t get away with it, not in this country.”

  Gower jumped to his feet and said furiously, “Okay, charge me with whatever offence you think I’ve committed. See where that gets you.”

  “It may well come to that.”

  “Can I go now?”

  “You may. I’ll have someone drive you to Marlingford. But I’ll be wanting to talk to you again, so don’t leave the district.”

  “Make a run for it? Why the hell should I? All I want is to get on with my life and my work, finished with all this bloody stupidity. So you’d better ...” But whatever he’d been about to say, he decided not to. Instead, throwing Kate a challenging look, he silently turned to the door.

  “Hold it,” she said quickly. “I’m warning you, Mr. Gower, don’t pull any more damn fool tricks. You may, just possibly, get away with this one, though I’m promising nothing. But if you try something like that again, I’ll slap a charge on you within seconds.”

  After he’d left, Kate called in Harry Silverdale. She felt she had to compliment him on an astute piece of work in identifying Gower’s fingerprints. It went against the grain, but she didn’t let that show.

  “Brilliant, Harry. Really brilliant.”

  Forty-five years of age if a day, a grizzled old hand, he could still flush up at a compliment. “Stroke of luck, really, ma’am.”

  “Stroke of genius, I’d say. Where exactly were Gower’s prints found?”

  “All over the place. I’ve got a list of locations here.”

  Kate glanced through his scribbled notes and felt a sudden thrill of excitement. “None on the typewriter?”

  “No, ma’am. Not Gower’s. Not Prescott’s. Only the typist’s. Whoever typed that suicide note was wearing rubber gloves.”

  “What?”

  “There are clear pattern traces on the keys of the letters that were used. Marigold gloves.”

  “But that means ...” Her mind was spinning. “Were any rubber gloves found in the office?”

  “Yes, but not Marigold. I asked the lads to look specially, and they found some in the cleaner’s broom cupboard. But they were a different make.”

  “So that totally eliminates the possibility of its having been suicide?”

  “Sure does. And that’s not the only thing. You’d expect to find traces of the suicide’s prints on the paper the note was typed on. But that was carefully handled by the edges, I’d say.”

  “Right, then, back to Gower as the possible killer. I can’t see it, Harry. Having left his dabs all over the office for us to find, why should he suddenly become cautious and put on rubber gloves to type the fake suicide note? On the other hand, if Gower’s story about searching the office for evidence of Prescott’s fraudulent activities is true, he wouldn’t need to have touched the typewriter.”

  “That makes sense to me, ma’am.”

  Kate smiled at him. She was in a mood to smile. “Okay, Harry, thanks for your help. We must have a drink together when the heat’s off a bit.”

  He left, but her smile lingered. She had two unsolved murders on her plate that were still wide open, yet she felt happy.

  Chapter Ten

  Kate’s elation was short-lived. Depression set in as she realised the complexities of the job ahead of her. All the investigations carried out so far would have to be reassessed, and the enquiry net widened to encompass Prescott’s death. The accountant’s friends, his clients and other contacts, all had to be checked on.

  She spent the afternoon on a recapitulation with Sergeant Boulter.

  “Question one, Tim. Could the two killings possibly be coincidental? Very doubtful, I’d say. The victims were connected when they were alive, so I think we should work on the assumption that their deaths are linked in some way.”

  “Agreed.”

  “So ... two murders with a common thread. But is it the same killer in each case?”

  Boulter raised his eyebrows. “What else?”

  “It doesn’t have to be the same killer. I’ll give you a possible scenario. Suppose that Latimer had persuaded Prescott to kill his wife, in return for a big pay-off when he got his hands on her money. Only Latimer didn’t inherit as expected, because of his wife’s new Will, so he couldn’t— or wouldn’t—pay out as promised. Prescott got difficult, and Latimer killed him to shut his mouth. Don’t forget Prescott’s false alibi for the time of Belle Latimer’s death. For him to pressure his sister into lying for him, he must have been desperate to conceal his actual movements that evening.”

  “But why should Prescott have posed a threat to Latimer? If he’d blown the gaff, he’d have landed himself in the shi—in the mire, too.”

  Kate granted his point. “All the same, Latimer had better have a watertight alibi for the time of Prescott’s death.”

  “There’s a much simpler explanation. Gower did both jobs.”

  Kate frowned. W
hy did Boulter have to be so damned stubborn? “Apart from anything else, where’s his motive, Sergeant? There’s no sign of a motive, is there?”

  “I’d have thought there was.”

  “Let’s have it, then.” She threw it out as a challenge.

  “Well ... money or sex or a combination of both. “Boulter’s voice was edged with relish. “I see it this way. He and the Latimer woman were having it off, and Gower reckoned that with her being so filthy rich he was on to a good thing. Only she rumbled him, and gave him the old heave-ho. From all accounts, she had a really vicious tongue in her head. But she went too far for once, and Gower paid her back by running her down with his car.”

  “And Prescott? How do you explain Gower murdering him?”

  “Prescott somehow found out about the first killing, and Gower had to silence him.”

  “That doesn’t make sense. Prescott’s murder, like Mrs. Latimer’s, was carefully premeditated. So why, if Gower did it, should he have been so careless as to leave his fingerprints all over the office?”

  Boulter scowled. “Perhaps he didn’t think of dabs if he was setting it up as a suicide.”

  “Explain this, then. Having left fingerprints all over the office, why did he suddenly become careful? None of his prints were found on or near the typewriter, remember, and rubber gloves were used to type the fake suicide note.”

  Tim scratched his cheek with one finger. “Yeah, that is a puzzler.”

  Gotcha!

  But Kate’s sense of triumph was only a small blip on the downward slope of her depression. By evening it was clear that she had the media on her tail to add to her problems. Press, radio, and television. Two killings in a small town was hot news. Even hotter news was the fact that the senior investigating officer was female. DHQ was breathing down her neck for something to feed to the vultures. Kate felt, curse it, that this was a whole lot worse than just a personal failure. It was as if she were failing the entire movement for women’s advancement.

  Hey, cut yourself down to size, Kate Maddox!

  The search of Prescott’s office had provided a whole mass of data to be processed, a laborious procedure which so far had yielded little else of value. Something found in his wallet looked more promising—a membership card of a gambling club in Bristol. A call there had winkled out the information that Mr. George Prescott, a regular member, had in fact been at the club on the evening of the Latimer killing. Furthermore, he’d lost a packet, having increased his stakes recklessly as the evening wore on in an effort to recoup his losses.

  A rapid scrutiny of Prescott’s various clients’ accounts, checked against the notebook found by Gower, revealed the fact that earlier on that same day the accountant had illicitly “borrowed” over two thousand pounds. His reasoning was obvious. A huge win would enable him to repay the money before it was missed and square his other gambling debts in one fell swoop. Every losing gambler’s dream. Prescott must have realised that the police would get around to asking for an account of his movements on the night of Belle Latimer’s death, and had been desperate to conceal the truth. To the extent, even, of implicating his sister in a false alibi.

  But where did this get her? Kate asked herself gloomily. The basic questions remained unanswered. Who killed Belle Latimer? Who killed George Prescott?

  Later on Wednesday morning Kate got a breakthrough, though at first it seemed barely a chink of light. She happened to be alone in her office when a call from Richard Gower was put through.

  “I’ve just remembered something about the evening Belle Latimer was killed,” he said.

  “Oh yes?” She tried to check her eagerness.

  “I told you about the phone call I received from my advertisement manager while I was waiting for the man who didn’t show up. But there was another call later.”

  “Go on, I’m listening.”

  “I’ve been trying to pinpoint just when it was. As near as I can recall, it must have been between about ten and ten-fifteen. The phone rang, but when I answered there was no reply. It came from a call-box ... you know the noises you get. Then silence. Naturally, I just thought it was a wrong number and promptly forgot about it. But I’ve been going through that evening again and again in my mind, trying to think of something, and suddenly this phone call came back to me.”

  Disappointment made Kate’s voice harsh. “Really, Mr. Gower. First, you claim a mysterious assignation with an unknown man, which kept you at home all evening. And now an aborted phone call that neatly pinpoints your presence there at the crucial time.”

  “It was the same person, don’t you see? Obviously he wanted to bring my car back and leave it exactly where he’d found it because he didn’t want to draw attention to the fact that he’d borrowed it. The way I figure things, he wasn’t trying to frame me, just to use a car that wasn’t his own. But, hopefully, Belle Latimer’s death would have been passed off as an accidental killing, not a murder. To fit with his plan, he phoned to check that I was still at home so he could safely leave the car outside Borough House. If I hadn’t been at home—if I’d given up waiting for him and gone out—I’d have discovered that my car was missing and raised the alarm.”

  “It’s an interesting theory, but there’s nothing to substantiate it. Nothing to substantiate anything you’ve told us about that evening, apart from that earlier phone call from your advertisement manager.”

  “Damn it, I’ve given you the facts, plus a theory that makes good sense. What the hell more can I do?”

  “And what the hell can I do with totally unverifiable information?”

  “You’re the detective! Why don’t you put your brilliant analytical mind to work?”

  “That sort of attitude isn’t going to help you, Mr. Gower. I don’t think you appreciate what a serious position you’re in.”

  “Oh, I’m not worried, just bloody angry. You see, I happen to know something you don’t know.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The simple fact that I’m innocent.”

  “To prove it, Mr. Gower, you’ll need to do a damn sight better than this.” Kate regretted her comeback the second she’d hung up on him. An innocent man didn’t have to prove anything. Her anger was in truth against herself, because she felt so impotent.

  She sat at her desk, deep in thought, for a full five minutes. For once, amazingly, she wasn’t interrupted. A sudden idea flashed into her mind. Wondering if she was being stupid, she picked up the phone and dialled the number of the Gazette.

  “Mr. Gower, please. Chief Inspector Maddox here.”

  He came on the line at once. “What now?”

  “That phone call. From a call-box, you said. What did you hear, exactly?”

  “Nothing. I told you, the caller didn’t say anything.”

  “No, I mean what sounds? Depending on the type of box, you’d either hear a series of clicks or what they call the cuckoo tone.”

  “Oh yes, I see.” A pause. “It was clicks.”

  “Sure about that?”

  Another pause, longer. Then, “Quite sure.”

  “Right. Thank you.”

  “Hey, don’t ring off. Are you on to something?”

  “I’m a long way from that.”

  “At least you believe me now. That’s a step forward.”

  “Don’t jump to conclusions. I asked you a question, you gave me your answer. Whether anything comes of it is something else.”

  Kate hung up and buzzed for a DC. “I want you to check with British Telecom about the type of payphones around Chipping Bassett ... say, a couple of miles’ radius. There are two kinds, I believe. The newer ones where you put in the coin before dialling and the older ones where you put it in after. Make a list of every pay phone in that area of the older type, and have its location pinpointed. Report back to me as fast as you can.”

  It took him thirty minutes. Thirty long minutes. His list numbered eleven in all. Six were in pubs or other premises, and for the time being Kate disregarded these. T
he remaining five were call-boxes; of these, three were on the far side of Chipping Bassett from the lane where Belle Latimer met her death. That left two for immediate investigation.

  She sent for Sergeant Boulter. “We’re going out to look at telephone call-boxes, Tim.”

  “Come again?”

  Kate explained briefly. The sergeant looked extremely dubious.

  “Job for a DC, I’d have thought.”

  “No, I want to handle it myself. Get the car, will you?”

  Boulter shrugged, and his hefty shoulders were eloquent. Put a woman in authority and this is what happens. Everything out of proportion, just because she fancies some guy and wants to get him in the clear. Kate felt defiant as she joined the sergeant in the station yard.

  Within five minutes they were pulling up outside a newsagent’s shop on a small council estate bordering the Marlingford road. A red call-box stood on the pavement outside, and, according to the map Kate carried, it lay on the most direct route from the murder scene to Gower’s flat. Yet somehow it didn’t feel right to her. The situation was too public, too much on view for a man who wouldn’t have wanted to be seen, driving a car he wouldn’t have wanted to be recognised or even noticed. All the same, she and Boulter questioned the owner of the shop (where Tim took the chance to buy a bag of toffees), and also the residents of a couple of close-by houses. Then Kate decided to give up.

  “We’d need to do a concentrated house-to-house here,” she said as they retreated to the car. “Maybe it’ll come to that. But first we’ll try the other call-box.”

  Kate had a positive feeling the moment she saw the second box. It stood in a small lane where there was only a scattering of houses.

  “Where do we start?” Boulter wasn’t keeping it to himself that he thought this was a hare-brained scheme.

  She pointed to a bungalow almost opposite the phone-box. But when they rang the bell, there was no answer. A pile of mail on the floor was clearly visibly through a small window, advertising the fact that the occupiers were away from home.

  Thwarted, Kate led the way to the only other nearby dwelling, a thatched cottage twenty yards along the lane. The small garden was beautifully tended, lush with flowers and healthy-looking vegetables. A lean-to greenhouse at one side also promised abundant crops.