Nina was still waiting at the door.
“When was this killing, did they say?”
“Last November.”
“Contemporary newspaper reports might be helpful. God, Nina, who the devil are these April Rainers? And, heaven help us, are there really eight of them? With numbers like that, they really could cover the whole country. Still,” he pushed back his chair, “no use anticipating trouble. I’m going over to see the mob at Broadshire Life. Perhaps they can shed some light on all this.”
The offices of the glossy magazine were very different from those of the Broadshire News, which Webb knew well. Thick carpet covered the floor, and far from the veil of cigarette smoke that assaulted any visitor who stepped over the threshold of the News, there wasn’t even an ashtray in sight. Webb was duly thankful. He and Jackson approached the sophisticated young lady behind her designer desk.
“Chief Inspector Webb and Sergeant Jackson, Shillingham CID. We’d like to see whoever’s in charge.”
“I’m not sure —” she began automatically, and stopped at the look in Webb’s eye. “One moment,” she substituted, and pressed a button on the instrument in front of her.
The voice at the other end reached them clearly. “Jenny, I said —”
“It’s the police, Mr. Peabody.”
“Oh God. Well, only to be expected, I suppose.” Jackson wondered if, like old-time servants, the police were supposed to be deaf. “Show them up, then.”
The girl rose and came round the desk. Her skirt was short, her legs shapely and elegantly clad, her heels high. Jackson, reminding himself he was a married man, followed her and Webb over to the scrolled doors of a lift. They were borne upwards in silence, scarcely seeming to move. The doors glided open and a carpeted corridor stretched before them, with exotic plants spotlighted at intervals along it. Literally Renta-Plant, Jackson thought; bit different from Carrington Street. The girl stopped at a door halfway along the passage, knocked, opened it, and stood to one side. The two policemen passed inside.
More thick carpet and elegant furniture, and a wall of windows overlooking the park and sports centre. A short, self-important-looking man rose to greet them, glancing at his watch.
“Good morning, gentlemen. I’m sure you’ll appreciate that things are extremely fraught this morning. The phone hasn’t stopped ringing, and —”
“Our time is valuable, too, sir,” Webb broke in. “We won’t keep you longer than necessary.”
“Yes, I see. Of course.” A small white hand with a gold signet ring waved vaguely at a couple of chairs.
“We’re completely stunned,” Peabody added after a moment, when, following his usual practice, Webb didn’t immediately speak. “Mr. Jessel was here on Friday afternoon. And now, three short days later —” He folded his hands on top of his desk, clasping them tightly as though to control himself. Then he looked expectantly at Webb.
“I believe there was a lot of resentment at the way the takeover was handled,” Webb began.
Peabody bristled. “On the contrary, everything possible was done to smooth the transition. As you can see, no time was lost and no expense spared in improving working conditions.” He gestured at the luxury around them. “We —”
“For instance,” Webb continued smoothly, “in spite of the agreement with the previous owners, there were a number of redundancies.”
“Forgive me, Chief Inspector, but I presume you have little experience of management. A concern such as ours can’t afford to carry passengers. One has —”
“I don’t wish to discuss business ethics, Mr. Peabody. I’m concerned only with who might have killed Mr. Jessel.”
The man stared at him, and his eyes were suddenly alarmed. “You surely don’t imagine that anyone connected —”
“I repeat, there was a lot of resentment. Have either you or, to your knowledge, Mr. Jessel ever received threats of any kind?”
Peabody’s anxiety deepened. “Certainly not. You don’t think —”
He never seemed to finish his sentences, Jackson noted. Not a good trait, surely, in a manager. Though to be fair, the governor wasn’t giving him much chance to.
“What I think is immaterial, Mr. Peabody. I’m trying to establish who had a motive to kill your employer.”
“But you can’t imagine — I mean, surely he wasn’t killed for business reasons?”
“What others would you suggest?”
Peabody was becoming noticeably more flustered. Possibly he saw himself as the next victim. “Well, I don’t know, I’m sure. What are the usual motives? Money? Fear?”
“Revenge?” Webb suggested helpfully, and saw the man flinch. “Look, sir, I’m simply asking for your help. Was there anyone who had particular reason to resent Mr. Jessel?”
“No, of course not. Except, possibly, Gaby Fenshawe, and to give her her due, she took it very well.”
“What about the man who died? Did any of his relatives approach the company?”
“Jessel Enterprises wasn’t responsible for his death,” Peabody said stiffly. “He had a weak heart. It was simply unfortunate that the attack came so soon after his —”
“Dismissal? Most unfortunate. But did anyone approach you? His widow, for instance, or someone representing her?”
“His wife had predeceased him, but there was some rather unpleasant correspondence with a son, I believe.”
“That’s the kind of thing I need. I’d be glad of his name and address, and also those of everyone here who lost their jobs when Jessel Enterprises took over.” Though what any of them had to do with Ted Baxter was anyone’s guess. He waited while Peabody lifted one of the phones on his desk and put through the request.
“Was your relationship with Mr. Jessel a purely business one?” he continued then.
“Yes; we never met outside office hours.”
“So you knew little of his private life?”
“Nothing at all.”
“Have you met his wife?”
“At official functions. A charming lady.”
Routine questions followed, but Mr. Peabody had recovered his composure and nothing further was forthcoming. Jackson was glad when they were interrupted by a girl with the computer print-outs. She was darker than the receptionist, but equally beautiful and soignée. Must be nice to have someone like that to bring in your cuppa, he thought wistfully. Fair brighten your day. The governor was getting to his feet.
“Thank you very much, Mr. Peabody. And if anything else occurs to you, perhaps you’d get in touch. Now, could we have a word with your new editor?”
For a moment, Jackson thought Peabody was going to refuse. But he bit back his annoyance, and they were duly taken down more corridors to the editor’s office.
Colin Campbell was a rangy young man with overlong dark hair and quick, intelligent eyes. From first impressions, Webb would have found it hard to choose between him and Gaby Fenshawe. Possibly in Jessel’s eyes his maleness had been his chief advantage. From what he’d heard of Jessel, Webb had formed the impression that he wouldn’t have taken women in business seriously. Decorative secretaries, fine, but speaking to them on equal terms, never.
“What was your immediate reaction on hearing of Mr. Jessel’s death?” he asked the young man.
The bright eyes regarded him quizzically. “Sanitized version?”
“No, the truth.”
“I thought, Hard luck, old chap, but you had it coming.”
“Would you explain that reaction?”
Campbell shrugged. “There were times when I could have throttled him myself. And others when I’d happily have spent an entire evening with him over a couple of drinks, putting the world to rights. He could be a bastard, but he was excellent company.”
“How did you feel about being appointed to this job?”
“Over Fenshawe, you mean? Not good, to be honest. I felt she’d been treated shabbily. But she’d lost it anyway, and if I turned it down, someone else would get it, so there was no point
in making a grand gesture.”
“Were you resented on her behalf?”
“Oh, certainly. I still am, particularly by the old guard, and I can’t blame them.” He met Webb’s eyes. “You’re not serious about this April Rainers rubbish?”
“Have you anything better to suggest?”
“Not offhand. But for a start, I don’t see the connection between Jessel and that other chap, the wife-beater. That is, I don’t think Jessel beat his missus.”
“There are other motives for murder,” Webb said mildly. “How long had you known Mr. Jessel?”
“About five years. I worked on one of his other publications.”
But as with Peabody, further questioning produced nothing new. Colin Campbell could add no more names of potential suspects.
*
Their last interview of the day was with Robert Kent, and was held back till six o’clock to allow him time to return home.
Mike Romilly also lived in Lethbridge Drive, Webb reflected, thinking of the editor of the Broadshire News for the second time that day. He must contact Mike and hand over the latest batch of cartoons. It still amazed him that the paper not only paid him good money for his doodling, but constantly pestered him for more. Still, his flair for caricature had more than once helped solve a case for him, pinpointing weaknesses in the cartoon figures that only his subconscious had registered. If things hadn’t moved forward in a day or two, he’d be getting out his easel again.
“Here we are, guv. Number twenty-two.” Jackson drew up in front of an attractive, double-fronted semi. It was starting to get dark, and lights showed invitingly in the hall and left-hand window. Jackson wondered if Kent were watching them from one of the darkened rooms. Surely he must be expecting them? Or was he confident Mrs. J. wouldn’t mention his name?
They got out of the warm car into the cool evening air. The sky above was clear, its deepening shadows cloudless. On a tree somewhere, a blackbird was singing its vespers. Jackson bent to unlatch the gate, and they walked together up the path.
Their ring was answered by a pleasant-faced young woman with a child in her arms. The little boy’s face was smeared with chocolate.
“Mrs. Kent?”
“That’s right.”
“Is your husband home?”
“Yes, he’s bathing our little girl. Can I take a message?” She looked at them doubtfully.
“We’d like a word with him, please. Shillingham CID.”
She caught her breath, and the child she held whimpered and struggled to be put down. Her grip tightened protectively. “Is something wrong?”
How to answer that? Her marriage, if nothing more, could be in danger.
“We won’t keep him long,” Webb said evasively.
In silence she held the door wide and they stepped inside. The lighted room had cushions on the floor, and a teddy-bear lying half under a chair. “The children have just had their playtime,” Mrs. Kent apologized, “and I haven’t had time to tidy up. If you’ll sit down, I’ll get my husband.”
Jackson’s eyes followed her as she left the room, the child’s rosy, chocolatey face watching him over her shoulder. At least Kent had had time to bath his daughter, he reflected, which was more than he’d do this evening.
Robert Kent arrived breathless, whether from anxiety or bathtime games, Webb couldn’t be sure. He was tall and florid-complexioned, with dark eyes and a loose, womanizing mouth. A small nerve twitching in his cheek betrayed the nervousness he was striving to conceal.
“You wanted to see me?”
“Chief Inspector Webb, sir, Shillingham CID. And my colleague, Sergeant Jackson.”
“Yes?”
“We’d like to know, sir, the last time you saw Mr. James Jessel.”
The impact of the question took away what remained of Kent’s breath, and he gasped as though struck in the solar-plexus. “Who?” he asked after a moment. It was a brave attempt.
Webb said smoothly. “You must have read of his death in the papers?”
Relief briefly flooded Kent’s face. “Oh, I see. Yes, of course. But — why should you think I knew him?”
“Because of your relationship with his wife,” Webb said brutally, destroying his hope stillborn.
Kent moved convulsively to the door and pushed it shut. “Look,” he said in an urgent undertone, “I don’t know what you’ve been told, or by whom, but you’re entirely misinformed. I know Mrs. Jessel very slightly, since we belong to the same tennis club, but that’s all.”
“You’re not being very helpful, Mr. Kent,” Webb said reproachfully. “We know for a fact that a week last Saturday, Mr. Jessel came home to find you with his wife. Since it was Mrs. Jessel herself who told us, I presume you’re not going to bother denying it?”
“Cynthia?” exclaimed Kent incautiously. “But — I don’t understand. Why should she mention my name?”
“Because her son thought you might have been making nuisance calls.”
“But I didn’t! I told her —” He broke off, and swallowed drily. “Look, all right, we did have a thing going, but it wasn’t important. She was bored, her husband was a workaholic and she was looking for a bit of fun. That’s all it was. But for God’s sake don’t let my wife hear about this. It was bad enough —” Again he stopped.
“Last time?” Webb finished for him, trying to keep the contempt out of his voice. The man flushed and looked away. What had Cynthia Jessel said, when he’d suggested Kent could have a motive for murder? “He wouldn’t have the guts.” He suspected she was right.
“Perhaps, Mr. Kent, having got all your denials out of the way, you’ll now answer my question. When did you last see Mr. Jessel?”
Kent moistened his lips. “I only ever saw him once — on the day you mentioned.”
“You didn’t lie in wait for him on Friday evening with a nylon stocking in your hand?”
Kent’s eyes widened in horror. “God, you don’t think that? Why should I kill him? It would make more sense if he’d killed me.”
“Because you were fearful of losing your job if the news got out?”
Kent shook his head violently. “I can see you haven’t much of an opinion of me,” he said jerkily. “Come to that, I haven’t of myself. But I’m not a killer, Chief Inspector. That, I promise you. I haven’t the stomach for it.” A more acceptable paraphrase.
“Where were you on Friday night, sir?”
“Here. The last place I’d have gone to was the Jessels’. I was still expecting him to come after me, to tell the truth.”
“Can you prove you were at home?”
“My wife will confirm it, if you’re prepared to believe her.”
“We’ll check with her.” He nodded to Jackson, who left the room. “In the meantime, I’d like you to accompany us back to the station for further questioning.”
Kent blanched. “Why?”
“You’ve already lied to us, Mr. Kent. We want to be sure you’re not still lying.”
“But I swear —”
Webb raised a hand. “You can swear at the station. Now, when the sergeant’s had a word with your wife, you can tell her what’s happening. All being well, you should be home again in an hour or two.”
And perhaps, Webb thought minutes later, as he and Jackson escorted the frightened man down the path, the brush with murder would have scared him out of any more amorous exploits, in which case some good may come out of the sorry business after all.
11
EARLIER THAT EVENING, after his last lesson, Mark had called on Felicity’s former music teacher, Miss Grundy, who, he’d discovered, was living in sheltered accommodation only minutes from his own home.
Fernley Park was a custom-built complex, with some two dozen flats grouped round two courtyards, and, being in the centre of town, was in easy walking distance of shops, library, cinemas and the post office. Miss Grundy had one of the smaller flats on the ground floor, and was at her door to greet him.
“I saw you coming from my
window,” she told him. “That’s one of the advantages of being at the front of the building, rather than tucked away round the back. There’s always something to see on King Street, and I still feel part of the town. That’s very important, now I can’t get about as much.”
She was a diminutive old lady with silver hair in a skimpy bun. She wore a dazzling white blouse with a high lace collar fastened with a cameo, and a black skirt reaching to her skinny ankles. Her gnarled hands were cruelly misshapen, and Mark remembered Felicity’s speaking of the arthritis which had recently prevented letter-writing.
He followed her into the small, cosily furnished living-room. A photograph of Felicity held pride of place on the television set.
“I’m delighted you’re doing her biography,” Miss Grundy said, following the direction of his eyes. “I can’t imagine why she’s staved off all requests until now.”
“Actually, nothing definite’s been settled. It would involve my taking a year or so off work if I went ahead with it.”
She smiled. “And I gather you’re a successor of mine, teaching music at Ashbourne?”
“That’s right, yes. Did you go to the school concert?”
“Indeed I did, and to the premiere. Weren’t they magnificent? That new concerto was quite breath-taking. And to think my little Felicity composed it! Of course, she was always one of my star pupils. Most children came to me at the age of seven or eight for their first music lessons, but by then Felicity was already a competent performer. In fact, she composed her first piece when she was only eight years old, and a charming little rondo it was.”
“I believe her father was against her making a career of music?”
“Indeed yes. I had several very difficult interviews with him, pleading on her behalf, but he was an obstinate man and wouldn’t give way. Now, Mr. Templeton, before we go any further and I’m carried away with nostalgia, what may I offer you to drink? Tea? Or would you prefer sherry?”
“Sherry would be very welcome, thank you.” And probably easier for the poor old thing to produce, he thought.
“I was very much hoping Felicity would come and see me,” Miss Grundy remarked as, holding the sherry bottle between her bent hands, she poured the liquid carefully into two glasses. “Still, I know she’s very busy.”
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