A Timely Death

by Janet Neel

  12

  Tuesday, 26 April

  The interview next morning with Susie James was proving so sticky that McLeish decided he would have to be content with her grudging confirmation that, yes, Miles Arnold had left her around midnight on the Friday and, yes, he had returned for the whole of Saturday night. Ms James was prowling round her sitting-room – there was no other way of putting it – occasionally swooping on a pile of things and putting them elsewhere. She worked from her flat but, as she explained, she was moving soon to somewhere bigger. The current flat was not indeed designed for visitors, being small and in need of a coat of paint and new windows. Ms James, on the other hand, was superbly maintained, a young woman in her late twenties with dark blonde hair, short-skirted black suit, worn with nothing else but jewellery, and immaculate nails, the whole marred only by the fact that she was formidably angry with him and everything else around her.

  ‘Does this mean the whole of Scotland Yard know about Miles and me?’

  ‘No. Just those of the investigating team who need to.’

  ‘I bet they gossip.’

  McLeish was on weak ground here and they both knew it. The Daily Mirror had carried a story the week before about a party that had gone wrong complete with prurient detail, courtesy of two members of the Metropolitan police force.

  ‘I mean, Miles is still a suspect, isn’t he? I made him tell me. You think the murder was early on Saturday?’

  McLeish hesitated to answer, but she was in full spate. ‘So you can’t just forget about it and say, oh, well, he’s in the clear. It was stupid to go back, he could easily have told her – Caroline – that he hadn’t heard the phone.’ She sat down, crossing her legs, giving him an admirable view of well-shaped long thighs. ‘And his timing is awful.’

  ‘Why?’

  The leg she was swinging checked, and she sat absolutely still for a few seconds, head bent. ‘Oh, just everything is happening at once, and I’m moving and half my stuff is packed up.’ She took a deep breath and got herself in hand. ‘Are we finished? I have to be with a client in an hour and I need to make a couple of calls.’

  They were indeed, McLeish confirmed, and got up to go as the bell rang, revealing a courier, motor-cycle helmet in one hand, and in the other a thick envelope with the address of one of the smaller City solicitors on it.

  ‘That’s the contract for my new place,’ she said, ripping it open. ‘It’ll be great to be out of here.’ She looked at him as if she had suddenly seen him as a man rather than an annoying and worrying interruption. ‘Look, sorry I’ve been in such a temper. It’s just that, well, it’s my private life.’

  ‘I’m sorry we had to trouble you,’ McLeish said, looking into dark brown eyes with long dark eyelashes, and wondering why a beauty like this one was bothering with a married MP fifteen years her senior. The attractions of power, he supposed, not that MPs really had much of that. But they got on the TV. They were instantly recognisable and that conveyed status on anyone associated with them, and that was presumably useful to someone who made their living out of public relations. And possibly she loved him, though that explanation did not sit entirely easily. He went down the shabby stairs which smelled very slightly of drains, and out to his waiting car, turning his mind to the more important matter of Luke Fleming, who had not told him that he was at Gatwick airport on the Friday afternoon, just over an hour from the Price Fleming office.

  Not that Fleming was particularly apologetic. A car bearing him, protesting vigorously, and Davidson arrived at the Yard at the same time as McLeish’s car, but they let Fleming cool his heels for twenty minutes while they checked their desks and caught up briefly with the team.

  ‘Catherine’s back,’ Davidson reported. ‘Ready to see you when you want.’ He waited to see if McLeish was going to want to do that now, then gave him, a touch smugly, a folder with three photocopies inside.

  ‘Mm,’ McLeish said, appreciatively. ‘Separation order, decree nisi, decree absolute. Adultery. By him, I mean.’

  ‘It would be,’ Davidson said, smugly. ‘Here’s a note of my wee chat with Catherine. He is having it off with Mrs P.’

  ‘I never doubted you but it’s nice to have it confirmed.’

  Luke Fleming was looking calmer when they got to him, collar button done up and tie carefully knotted. McLeish sat down on the other side of the table, waiting while Davidson got the tape recorder into action.

  ‘You were on the manifest of a privately chartered plane which came from Majorca to Gatwick on Friday the 8th,’ he said, briskly, when Davidson was ready. ‘What were you doing in England?’

  ‘Not murdering Bill. I never went anywhere near the office.’ He drew on a cigarette, stubbed it out, and tried the coffee instead, gave that up and clasped both hands together in front of him, the gold cuff-links neatly set against the good blue shirt.

  ‘Where did you go?’

  ‘To see my wife.’ They blinked at him. ‘My ex-wife, I should have said, Margaret. Maggie. Near Barnsley. I picked up a car at the airport.’

  ‘What time did you get there?’

  ‘About seven thirty.’

  ‘And your wife – your ex-wife – will confirm this?’

  ‘No.’ He took a cigarette from the packet and made a performance of lighting it, the big hands unsteady. ‘Someone had told me – in Majorca this was – that she’d got a bloke living with her, fulltime. Well, I’m paying an arm and a leg in maintenance for her and I’m paying the mortgage, and I didn’t see why some other bugger should get it all free. I was offered a ride – friend of mine, who is a pilot – and I thought I’d go over and see what was what.’

  ‘So you didn’t see her?’

  ‘Oh, I saw her. She came back from somewhere, then she got dolled up and went out. Came back, by herself, dropped off by a woman around midnight. I slept in the car, on and off, hung around on the Saturday just to check no one had got in while I was asleep. There was just her, in and out till about noon. The bloke I came with was going back again at five o’clock, so I went back to Gatwick. I left Barnsley about … what … noon. Nothing I could prove there.’

  An unattractive recital, McLeish thought with distaste, given the facts recorded in the folder.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell us you were in England on Friday and Saturday?’

  Fleming, shoulders hunched, was looking at the table. ‘Well, I was embarrassed. And, well, scared when I thought about it. I slept in the car, I didn’t see anyone who’d remember me. You already know why I didn’t contact the wife. Chap in a garage on Saturday morning when I went for petrol. And a pretty girl – a blonde – on the till at the motorway caff at about three in the morning. I could describe her but I dunno if she’d remember me. I could have been anywhere.’

  He could indeed, and they pressed him on all the detail, extracting a possible description of a young woman who had been working in the Forte restaurant where he had eaten a full English breakfast at three in the morning. They left him sitting while they repaired for a coffee and a small conference.

  ‘We’ll need to talk to the ex-wife,’ McLeish said, thoughtfully. ‘You’d better go, Bruce. She’ll tell you how bad it was with him and what she gets as maintenance. Given what Catherine told us about him and Mrs Price, it gets interesting, doesn’t it?’ He saw that Bruce was looking doubtful. ‘No?’

  ‘Mrs Price wasn’t the victim.’

  ‘No. But she’s well off and Fleming’s probably short of cash. I mean, given what happened with wife number one, wife number two needs to be reasonably well off. Or he needs to catch number one with another man, as he was trying to do.’

  Davidson gave him his careful look that had always meant he was missing something.

  ‘What, Bruce?’

  ‘It’s no’ just the money, do you think? That type of man can’t stand the fact that she got away and might have another bloke.’

  ‘Possessive.’

  ‘Aye. Like a child.’

  ‘So he might hav
e done Bill Price in order to get Sylvia for himself.’ It was a more convincing motive, McLeish acknowledged. ‘You were of course right about him and Mrs Price.’

  ‘I’m no’ infallible, mind, but close. What are we to do with Mr Fleming? Charge him?’

  ‘No, not yet. If we can place him at that service station at 3 a.m. he’d have had difficulty murdering Bill Price.’

  ‘Well, would he?’ Davidson asked. ‘If Bill Price wanted his jollies, he did’na wait till after the late movie. He had something to eat and a bit to drink, we know that, then he fancied a bit of the other. Say he’d trussed himself up by ten o’clock, there’s well time for Fleming to have pushed the table over and got himself to Barnsley for three in the morning.’

  ‘It’s possible,’ McLeish acknowledged. ‘But I don’t want to arrest him before we’ve had a go at finding the girl. Let him go. Don’t take his passport. We know where he is, and if what Catherine says is right he’s got nowhere to go. He needs to rescue the business. If we can place him in Barnsley his alibi is not a lot worse than Miles Arnold’s or the Price brothers’ right now. At least they were in London.’

  Miles Arnold was shown straight up to the flat when he arrived, as Sylvia Price had asked. He looked round the room without pleasure; he had seen it before but had forgotten how cluttered it was. He bent to kiss his hostess formally on the cheek, moved three small silk cushions out of his way and sat down, uneasily conscious of two more cascading off the back of the sofa.

  ‘It is nice to see you, Miles. Thank you for your letter.’

  ‘And very nice to see you too, Sylvia, even though … even in the circumstances. I shall be at the funeral, of course.’

  ‘Tea?’ She poured him some which he took gratefully, trying to work out how to proceed. He considered her carefully over his cup; she was looking cool and tidy in expensive pale green wool with more jewellery than he liked, but powerfully, containedly feminine.

  ‘Sylvia, I know you have everything to do and it must be very difficult … picking up all the reins, as it were, and I’m sorry to add to your burdens, but I am in some difficulty. I do need, urgently, some of the money that Bill was … was looking after for me.’

  ‘We are talking of the cash that you say he had in the safe.’

  ‘That he had in the safe, Sylvia, I assure you. Not to mention the cheque I wrote him a couple of months ago.’

  ‘Your lawyer has written, yes?’ She put her cup down carefully and took a delicate iced biscuit. ‘I have given the letter to my lawyers who have explained to me that I must not pay money out unless it is part of the business’s expenses.’

  ‘But this was a cheque to Bill personally.’

  ‘Indeed, Miles, but he paid it into the business account. I do not know for what you have paid or whether I can give money to you. You must see that.’ She looked at him, head tipped to one side, eyes wide and earnest, and he felt slightly sick.

  ‘Sylvia, I don’t know what’s going on but I gave that money to Bill to invest for me. I want either the stock or the money back. It’s nothing to do with the business.’

  ‘But that is not now so. Bill – what is it you say? – oversigned the cheque.’

  ‘Endorsed it? To whom?’

  ‘To the business. He never spoke of any of this to me, you understand, and so my lawyer say I must believe that you were investing in the business and we must have more knowledge before we could legally give you money.’

  ‘It’s not a question of give, it’s my money. And I need it.’ He stared at her enraged but her hands were folded and she was not looking at him. He took a deep breath and leant forward. ‘Look, Sylvia, I know cash is tight and the legal formalities have to be observed, but Bill – or the company – owes me eighty thousand and you’ve seen the cheque. Just let me have a cheque for twenty grand – which I need now – and we’ll sort the rest out as and when.’

  She poured them both more tea while he waited, on the edge of his seat, tense with hope. She looked over at him, eyes wide. She paused to blow her nose. ‘I am – I have so many people who say that Bill has done wrong things, or taken money, and my lawyer says I must proceed with care. Antony and Francis are both saying that Bill has taken money from a trust for them. I have to say no to them too.’ She dabbed at her eyes. ‘So, Miles, you must see. I am sorry, I must not use the company’s money, I am advised. I am sure that in only a few weeks all will be arranged.’

  ‘That’ll be too late.’

  ‘For what, Miles? Surely you can ask your bank? And the insurance company I know are considering our claim – your claim – that there was £20,000 in the safe.’

  He tried again, several times, tense with exasperation, but although she wept prettily, she never came close to yielding. All his increasingly desperate proposals were met with suggestions that he should go and see the insurance company, or that his lawyer should see her lawyer and discuss what was to be done. Finally he understood that he was not going to get any money that day or in the months to come without a monumentally awkward public fight.

  ‘You’re just like Bill, aren’t you?’ he said bitterly, slamming the teacup down. ‘Couple of crooks, the pair of you. Deserved each other. Fuck you and your bloody husband. I hope you end up in an even worse way than he did. I’ll see you in court, don’t think I’m going to give up.’ He tripped over a small footstool on his way out, and narrowly avoided cannoning into one of the overdone gilded mirrors on his way to bang the door and stamp down the elegant winding staircase, sick with rage.

  ‘Catherine. Welcome back.’ McLeish got up from his desk to greet her, truly pleased to see her. She was looking tired but beautiful. ‘Great work – I know you weren’t doing it for us exactly, but it was enormously helpful. I’ve just seen Fleming.’

  ‘Arrested him?’

  ‘No. He’s got – well, not exactly an alibi, but an explanation and it’ll need checking. Have you just got back?’

  ‘No. I came back last night. I came to look for you this morning but you were out.’

  ‘I was having an interesting time there and all. Another alibi that doesn’t quite work.’ He caught himself up; Catherine was not even in C Division, much less one of his team, and he must resist the temptation to confer with her as if it were the old days. He looked at her with affection and realised that she was not in the same mood as him at all; the long hands were clenched in her lap and she was very pale.

  ‘What was Fleming doing here?’

  ‘Ah.’ She was owed this piece of gossip; but for her they would not have known about Fleming’s marital track record. Or not at this stage – sooner or later, if this case wore on, everything would be checked. ‘He was spying on his ex-wife. He admitted it perfectly freely. He didn’t try and contact her, so he doesn’t have an alibi.’

  ‘Just watched. What was he looking for? Another man, I suppose.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Trying to control her behaviour after she threw him out.’

  McLeish hesitated. ‘What he said was that if he found her, well, cohabiting, he would use that in any application to reduce payments to her.’

  ‘What the bastard meant was he couldn’t take her having walked out and found someone else.’ She wasn’t looking at him but to his left, out of the window.

  ‘I suppose that may be true as well,’ he said, lamely, resting his eyes on the clear profile, desperately sorry for her and unable to think of anything to say that would stop her looking quite so grim.

  She drew in a deep breath and unclasped her hands and made a visible effort to return from wherever she had been, and turned her head to look at him before he had got his expression in order. For a long moment they just looked at each other and he felt himself blush.

  ‘You’ve heard the gossip too, then,’ she said, pulling her back straight. She looked ravishingly pretty and as if she was about to explode, and he tried to find the words.

  ‘The story I heard made it clear you’d had a bad time.’

  S
he did not speak and he decided to go on, both feet in it if need be, anything rather than this tense, angry estrangement. ‘I’m very sorry, Cath, you deserve better.’

  ‘And I could have had better, too, you must think.’ She was, he saw, bitterly angry and he dared not go near her.

  ‘Me, you mean,’ he said, flatly. ‘You could, yes. You did, after all,’ he added daringly, and to his relief saw the edge of her mouth quiver. ‘But it’s not what I was thinking. You could have had lots of other blokes, but they weren’t what you wanted, or not at the time.’

  ‘But Francesca has always been what you wanted?’

  ‘By no means. I was thirty-three when I met her. And I wobbled as you have cause to know.’ He considered his statement. ‘But she suits me, yes, and I love her, and I hope she feels the same.’

  She looked past him again, out of the window. ‘There’s no escape in our business. When I … when Dave … well, I ended up with a WPC telling me it wasn’t my fault and I must be brave and take him to court. She’d worked with Dave when he was at Mile End. You should have seen her face when she realised who the lads had arrested. I could have laughed. Except that when her partner on the shift arrived I’d trained her. I wrote a report on her, saying she was unsuitable for CID, better put her with juveniles, or women’s issues. So they did.’

  ‘Oh Jesus, Cath.’ He wanted to touch her but everything about the way she was holding herself suggested he would get bitten, if not worse.

  ‘Yeah. And I could see it would be round everywhere by the morning.’ She was holding herself ramrod straight, but she looked as if she was still being beaten. ‘I think it was that more than anything which made me give him up. While no one knew, it was between us, sort of, then it was different, but once everyone knew and was, oh, not quite sorry for me, you know, wide-eyed but couldn’t wait to get out of the room and tell their mates.’

  ‘That must have been very hard.’ And she must, he understood, have been badly hurt or in danger of her life, or both, to have invoked police help. He drew in a breath, carefully. ‘Did you have to go to court?’