Slider turned to his hostess. Frances Hammond, née Dacre, was a big woman – not fat, but tall, and with that unindented solidness that comes with a certain age. Slider put her in her middle fifties, but it was not altogether easy to tell, for her clothes and hair and general style made her look older, while her face, if one could take it in isolation, looked younger. It was a soft, creaseless face, pink and somehow blurred, with uncertain eyes and a vulnerable mouth. She made Slider think of a child of about ten finding itself trapped by sorcery in someone else’s body. Perhaps that accounted for her lack of co-ordination: she moved like someone coping with an alien planet’s gravity. But she might have been pretty once, and could have been handsome even now had anyone taken the trouble to encourage her. Her hair, in the dull, too-old-for-her style, was light brown and softly curling, and her eyes were large and brown and rather fawn-like.
‘What a splendid room,’ he said to her, to prime the conversation.
She looked pleased, but nervous. ‘Oh, yes,’ she said, moving her hands vaguely. ‘I like it. I tend to sit here mostly.’ There was a saggy old sofa, stuffed with a variety of cushions, standing endways on to one side of the Rayburn, and an old-fashioned high-backed oak settle facing it on the other side. ‘It’s warm and quiet, and Father – well, he finds – he likes to be alone for reading and working and …’ She seemed to run out of steam at that point. Her voice had a faded, failing sound to it, so that she started her sentences feebly and lost impetus as she went along.
‘You don’t worry about his being alone, in his condition?’
‘He rings if he wants me. The servants’ bells are still …’ She glanced towards the indicator above the door, one of those boards with little handbells on brass springs. ‘And he has Sheba with him most of the time, though sometimes she gets on his nerves. And then he …’
‘What’s wrong with her ears?’ he asked, turning to look at the dog; it seemed restless, tracking round the kitchen with its nose to the floor, ears flicking with irritation.
‘Oh, it’s nothing catching,’ Mrs Hammond said at once, as though she had been accused of it many times. ‘It’s a nervous complaint, the vet says. Or maybe hormonal. It makes it difficult to …’ Fade-out again. It was like listening to Classic FM in a poor reception area. ‘She’s a bit upset, poor thing, with all this … I’ll just shut her out.’
Mrs Hammond opened a door on the far side of the kitchen, giving Slider a glimpse of a stone passageway with doors on either side – storerooms, he supposed – and called the dog. It did not obey, and she was obliged to catch it by the collar and drag it out, nails protesting on the stone floor, and shut the door quickly. Coming back, Mrs Hammond said, ‘Would you like a cup of tea? Or coffee. Or anything.’
It would probably soothe her to have something to do with her hands, Slider calculated. ‘Yes, please, if it’s no trouble. Tea, please.’ He waited until she had drawn the water and set the kettle on the hob, and then said, ‘It must have been a terrible shock to you this morning to find Mrs Andrews like that.’
Instantly her eyes filled with tears and her mouth trembled; it was as though she had forgotten the dreadful events in the business of taking care of Slider. He was almost sorry to remind her. ‘Oh! It was awful. Poor Jennifer!’ She put her hands to her mouth. ‘Who would do a terrible thing like that?’
‘A terrible thing like what?’
Her cervine eyes lifted, puzzled. ‘Well – you know – murder her.’
‘We don’t know that she was murdered,’ he said, leaving an opening for her; but she only looked at him in utter dumbfoundedness.
‘But—’ she said at last. ‘But she couldn’t have – I mean – how did she get into the hole? With the tarpaulin pulled over her. Someone must have put her there – mustn’t they?’ She added the last in a kind of horrified meekness, as though expecting him to produce some ghastly official knowledge of bodies and holes beyond the range of the ordinary citizen.
‘Someone must have put her there,’ he agreed, ‘but it doesn’t follow they killed her. She might have died naturally, and this person for some reason didn’t want to get involved.’
Mrs Hammond stared a moment longer, working it through, and then looked hugely relieved. ‘Oh! Yes, I see. That must be it! Oh, I’m so glad it wasn’t … I didn’t want anyone to …’ She sat down awkwardly on the edge of the sofa. ‘Of course, he might think no-one would believe him. They were always quarrelling.’
‘They?’
‘Eddie and Jennifer.’ She looked up at him anxiously, as if she had done something wrong. ‘Oh, but I don’t mean to suggest … It doesn’t follow that …’
‘Most married couples quarrel,’ he said.
She looked relieved again. ‘Yes, of course. I didn’t want you to think …’
‘That’s all right,’ he said, in general reassurance. ‘What work is it that Eddie’s doing on your terrace?’
‘Subsidence,’ she said. ‘All these dry summers. We’re clay here, you see, and it shrinks. There was a section of the terrace where the paving stones were sinking, and cracks appeared in the terrace wall.’ She paused, thinking.
‘So you called him in?’ Slider prompted.
‘I mentioned it to him, just in passing, and he said he’d come and have a look. And then he said it was subsidence and it was very serious. We’d have to have it done or the whole terrace might collapse.’
‘So it was he who suggested you have the work done?’
‘Oh! Yes. I suppose so, if you put it like that. But he would know: he’s a very good builder. Everyone says so. And he’s done lots of little things for us over the years. He’s very reliable.’
Slider nodded. ‘When did he start work on the terrace?’
‘On Monday.’
‘And what time did he finish work last night?’
‘I’m not really sure. I think it was – perhaps some time after six.’
‘Didn’t he usually come and tell you he was leaving?’
‘Oh! No, you see, he could come and go as he liked, round the side. He didn’t need to be let in, so he …’ He waited sturdily and she went on, ‘I didn’t go out there much while he was working. I didn’t want to get in the way.’
‘You can’t see the terrace from here,’ he observed. The only window looked onto the road. ‘You say you usually sit in here?’
‘My father likes to be alone. He has his end of the house, the two big rooms for his study and sitting room, and his bedroom and bathroom above. I stay at this end. My bedroom’s above here, and my sewing-room, and I generally sit here in the kitchen – unless he asks for me, to read to him. Or play chess.’ She blushed. ‘I’m not very good, so he doesn’t often ask me.’
‘So it’s almost like being in two separate houses?’
‘It was the arrangement we had when the boys were little, so that they wouldn’t disturb him. Mummy was alive then, of course. She and Father had their end, and the boys and I had ours. Their bedrooms and our bathroom are next to my bedroom, and my sewing-room used to be their playroom. Of course, they’re gone now, the boys. Left home. They’ve got their own lives,’ she added with unconscious pathos. ‘But Father – we just kept the arrangement the same.’
Slider felt almost shivery, thinking of these two people alone at opposite ends of the house, isolated by the great no man’s land of the baronial hall. He thought he had never come across a woman so sad – in all senses – as Mrs Hammond.
He resumed questioning. ‘So how do you know that Andrews left after six yesterday?’
‘I took Sheba out at about half past six, and he wasn’t there then.’
‘But he could have left earlier than six?’
‘Oh, he wouldn’t do that,’ she said earnestly. ‘Whenever he’s worked here for us, he’s always started at half past eight and worked till six or later – at least, in the summer. He liked to get the job done, you see.’
Slider accepted this for now. ‘How did he leave things? Was the tarpaul
in covering the hole completely last night?’
She fluffed. ‘Oh! I think so. I didn’t really notice. I’m so sorry! I mean, I didn’t have any reason to look. I think it was, though.’
Slider made a calming gesture. ‘Would you like to tell me what happened this morning?’
‘I – I went to take Sheba out. I was earlier than usual. I didn’t sleep well last night. I don’t sleep much as a rule; Father sometimes needs me in the night, and it’s made me something of an insomniac.’
‘Were you disturbed in the night – last night, I mean?’
She looked confused. ‘Oh! No – nothing like that. It was very quiet, actually. But I didn’t sleep well all the same, so I got up early. I took Sheba out, and – and the corner of the tarpaulin was turned back. I suppose it must have blown like that in the night. As I went past I just glanced at it and – and saw – saw the legs.’ Her lips began to tremble. ‘It was so terrible.’
‘Yes, it must have been a dreadful shock for you,’ Slider said encouragingly. ‘What did you do next?’
‘I couldn’t think. I didn’t know what to do. I thought I’d better make sure. So I pulled the tarpaulin right back. Then I saw it was Jennifer. Then I – I suppose I was frozen to the spot for a while. And then Eddie arrived.’
‘In his pickup?’
‘Yes. He pulled onto the gravel and jumped out and came towards me and – and I – I screamed, I’m afraid. I was frightened. And he said something like, “What are you doing here?” and I said, “It’s Jennifer,” and he said, “You’ve found her!” or something like that. And then he looked at her, and he seemed very shocked and sat down on the wall and handed me his telephone and said, “You’d better call the police.” So I did.’
‘Why were you frightened when he arrived?’
She paused at the question, as though surprised, and then said nervously, ‘Well – because I thought he’d killed her. So I was afraid he might – attack me.’
‘What made you think that?’
‘I don’t know. I suppose it was silly. It just seemed obvious at the time.’
‘You were quite sure she was dead?’
‘She looked dead,’ she said faintly. ‘You don’t mean—?’
He had no desire to add to her mental burdens. ‘No, I’m sure she was. I just wondered why you were so sure. And Andrews seems to have been sure, too. He told you to call the police, not an ambulance?’
She nodded. ‘But she looked dead,’ she said again. The kettle boiled and she got up and lifted it off with hands that were trembling badly again. Prudently, he waited until she had poured the boiling water and put the kettle down before asking the next question.
‘So after you had telephoned the police, what did you do?’
‘I went indoors to get Father up.’
Slider raised his eyebrows. ‘You just left Andrews there on his own?’
She coloured. ‘Was that wrong? But I had to see to Father. He gets so cross if his routine is interrupted.’ Her hands moved about feebly as if trying to escape. ‘Eddie – he wasn’t doing anything, just sitting on the wall. But Father—’
She was obviously much afraid, or in awe, of her father; the thought that Andrews might destroy evidence probably never occurred to her. And if she really did think he had killed his wife, she might not want to remain alone with him. Slider could hardly carp about that, but it was inconvenient: Andrews must have been alone out there for a quarter of an hour or so. ‘I believe you told one of the other policemen that Eddie Andrews arrived earlier than usual this morning?’
She handed him a mug of tea. ‘Yes. He always started at half past eight, but it was before seven o’clock this morning.’
‘Did you usually see him arrive?’
‘Well, I see his truck go past the window if I’m in here. Half past eight was his usual time. I didn’t expect …’
‘No, I’m sure you didn’t,’ Slider said.
There was a scratching, rattling noise at the far kitchen door, and it swung open to admit the Alsatian, which glanced sidelong at Mrs Hammond and then resumed its restless padding around the kitchen, nose to the floor. Mrs Hammond looked guiltily at Slider. ‘She can get the door open now, the bad girl. She pushes the latch up. She doesn’t like being shut out.’ She turned to the dog. ‘Basket! Go to your basket.’ For a wonder, the dog obeyed. The basket was in the corner, a big wicker one, lined with blanket. The dog turned round three times and flopped down, and then nosed out what looked like a bit of red rag from under the blanket and began chewing it in an obsessive kind of way.
‘Good girl,’ said Mrs Hammond, with a hint of relief. It must be nice for her, Slider thought, to get her own way in something for once.
Andrews looked up as Atherton came in with the tea. He was more haggard than ever, though his hands had stopped shaking; and despite his burliness of shoulder he looked small sitting at the table with the great solid bulk of PC Willans standing in the corner behind him.
‘I didn’t do it,’ he said, without preamble.
‘He denies it: write that down,’ Atherton said to the wall.
‘I want to go home. You can’t keep me here.’
‘No-one’s keeping you here, sir,’ Atherton said blandly. ‘You’re helping us with our enquiries, that’s all. It’s purely voluntary.’ He pushed a cup across the table to Andrews, and raised the other to his lips in a relaxed, social manner. ‘You do want to help us, don’t you?’
Andrews’ defiance deflated. ‘I don’t know anything,’ he said pathetically. ‘I don’t know what happened. I would never have hurt her. Aren’t I supposed to have a solicitor?’
Atherton, absorbing the sequence of words, said in tones of pleasant interest, ‘You can have one if you want, of course. Do you think you need one, then?’
Andrews shook his head slightly, which Atherton took as an answer, though it might just as easily not have been. Andrews was drinking the tea now, staring blankly through the steam. He looked as if he hadn’t slept for a week, and he certainly hadn’t shaved for twenty-four hours. The shock was genuine enough, Atherton decided. He had seen before how a murderer didn’t really take in the enormity of his actions until he was found out, and saw them, so to speak, through someone else’s eyes. Only then did he let all the normal human feelings out of the locked room where they’d been kept out of the way while the deed was done.
Start with the easy stuff, Atherton thought, from chapter one of the Bill Slider Book of Getting People To Blurt It All Out. ‘So, tell me about this work you’re doing for Mrs Hammond.’
Andrews blinked, having expected a worse question, and took a moment to recalibrate. ‘She was worried about subsidence. Well, some of the pavings had sunk a bit, and there were some cracks in the retaining wall, but I told her it was nothing to worry about. They move about a bit, those old buildings, but they’ll stand up for ever. But she insisted I do something about it, so I did.’ He looked at Atherton and shrugged slightly. ‘I’ve got a living to make.’
‘Cheating her out of her savings, eh?’
He looked nettled. ‘I told her it was all right. Anyway, the money’s all Mr Dacre’s. She hasn’t got a penny of her own. It was for Mr Dacre to say if he wanted the job done, so he must’ve agreed.’
Atherton smiled smoothly. ‘I see. Of course, you didn’t mind taking the money from an old man in a wheelchair?’
Andrews flared up. ‘What’re you trying to say? I’m an honest builder, anyone will tell you that.’
‘Just trying to get an insight into your character.’
‘Mr Dacre’s a bad-tempered old bastard, and he treats her like dirt, so you needn’t take up for him! What’s all this got to do with it anyway?’
‘Well, you see,’ Atherton said, ‘here was this handy hole in the terrace and, lo and behold, your wife’s body turns up in it. Naturally I wondered whose idea it was to dig the hole in the first place.’
Surprisingly, Andrews crumpled and a couple of convulsive sobs broke ou
t before he covered his face with his hands and sat making choking noises into them, his shoulders shaking. ‘I didn’t kill her!’ he cried, muffled. ‘I wouldn’t! I loved her! You’ve got to believe me!’
Atherton waited implacably until the noises stopped. Then he said, ‘All right, tell me about you and Jennifer. How long have you been married?’
‘Ten years,’ Andrews said pallidly. ‘We have our ups and downs like any couple – you know how it is – but …’ It was one of those sentences not designed to be finished.
‘How did you meet her?’
‘I was doing a job in St Albans. That’s where she comes from. I went to the pub after work one evening and there she was.’
‘Working behind the bar?’
Andrews didn’t like that. A little point of colour came to his cheeks. ‘She was a customer, same as me. She was there with some friends. It’s only recently she’s started working at the Goat – and anyway, she’s a waitress in the restaurant there, not a barmaid.’
‘You’ve got something against barmaids?’
‘Not as such. It’s just – not something you want your wife doing, is it? She helps out sometimes in the restaurant at the Goat, that’s all, because Linda asked her to, as a friend.’
‘Linda?’
‘Jack’s wife. Jack Potter, the landlord. Linda runs the restaurant. It was her idea to start it – she reckoned there was lots of money round here for a posh restaurant. Sharp as a packet of needles is Linda.’
‘And your wife also worked for an estate agent, I understand?’
‘That’s her proper job,’ Andrews said. He seemed eager, Atherton thought, to distance the Andrews name from the taint of licensed victualling. ‘That’s what she was doing in St Albans when I first met her. She does four mornings in the office for David and the occasional Saturday and Sunday, if there’s a lot of people wanting to see over houses.’
‘And David is?’
‘David Meacher. It’s his own business. He’s got two offices, one in Chiswick High Road, and the other out where he lives, out Denham way. But that’s not open all the time. The Chiswick one’s the main branch.’
Shallow Grave (Bill Slider Mystery) Page 3
