Charlotte gave him her most charming smile as she sat down. “I’m sorry to trouble you again, Mr Adams. It’s just background information we want now - trying to build up a complete picture of the family. Do you understand?”
The accountant just nodded and glowered at her.
“Well, then.” She had read through her questionnaire thoroughly and now had it resting on her lap. “When your father died, about eighteen months ago, he left Druce’s Hill House to your mother. Is that right?”
Adams nodded again.
“Did he leave her anything else? Any money? A steady income?”
“Oh yes.” He pulled a face. “It costs a lot to keep that great barn of a place in a reasonable state. Don’t I know it now that I’ve got to pay for it.”
“So.” She looked at him sideways. “Where did the money come from?”
He looked at her in surprise. “From my father’s investments, of course.”
“Can you be a little more specific?”
“Specific?” He seemed unable or unwilling to understand her question. “You mean what did he invest in?”
Charlotte nodded encouragingly.
“Well, I don’t remember everything.” He looked thoughtfully into the distance. “The brokers would be able to give you a list. Mainly he had personal share-holdings in a number of British companies - quite substantial share-holdings. I think that they’re currently worth about five million pounds.”
“Did you say there were trustees?” asked DC Prendergast.
He nodded. “That’s right. My father placed his main investments in a trust more than twenty years ago. It’s a fairly standard way of avoiding excessive death duties. But it means the direct beneficiaries can’t receive the capital - only the earnings from the investments.”
“And who,” asked Charlotte, “are the beneficiaries?”
Adams smiled slightly. “The two main beneficiaries are my sister and I, now that my mother is dead. There are a few other relatives and former staff who are paid incomes from the fund. And our children will receive allowances once they reach twenty-five.”
“How many children are there?” she asked innocently.
A look of frustration crossed his face. “We only have the one son. Cardew is twelve. My sister has five children, at the last count, between the ages of two and fifteen.”
“Five?” Young Prendergast couldn’t prevent the astonishment showing in his voice. At the same time Charlotte was wondering how anyone in this day and age could bring themselves to call their son Cardew.
“Her husband is a practising Catholic,” said Adams, by way of explanation.
Charlotte had the feeling that there wasn’t a lot of love lost between Giles Adams and his sister’s family. But she said, “And what is the approximate annual income from the trust?”
“I should say about three percent at present.” There was a slight air of challenge in the way he said it.
Charlotte did a quick calculation in her head and came up with a hundred and fifty thousand pounds. “So how much of that income do you get, Mr Adams?” she asked.
“I get thirty-five percent, now my mother has died - about fifty thousand pounds a year.” He hurried to get the rest of the information off his chest. “My sister gets the same. When my mother was alive we both received twenty percent and she had thirty percent. About ten percent is paid out to other beneficiaries. The remaining twenty percent is intended for the grand-children. At present it is reinvested but it can be made available to them later at the discretion of the trustees.”
She nodded. It seemed that Giles Adams had benefited from his mother’s death to the tune of some twenty thousand a year. But somehow she doubted whether greed was enough of a motive to cast suspicion on him. However she had another question. “Who are the trustees, Mr Adams?”
“There are three. Two of my father’s old friends and me.”
“But not your sister,” said Prendergast.
“No.” The accountant seemed pleased to transfer his attention to the young man. “I think my father felt she was living too far away for convenience.”
Charlotte was watching him closely. “Where do the other trustees live?”
“One lives in Sussex and the other is here in Torquay.”
“And you can easily contact them if you need to have a decision on something?” she asked.
He nodded. “Not that it’s necessary to do it very often. Most of the investments run themselves. The trust has brokers in the city who reinvest surpluses in accordance with the rules. The law won’t allow you to take risks with trust funds.”
“I understand.” Charlotte looked down at her notes. “I’ll need to see a copy of the trust document, Mr Adams. Can you provide me with that?”
“It’s stored away in a safe somewhere, but I can find it and take a copy.” He looked at her. “Will it be satisfactory if I send it to you in a few days?”
She smiled. “Perfectly satisfactory. At the same time can you please also send me the names and addresses of the other two trustees and the details of the brokers?” She stood up. “If you can let me have that soon, and if everything is in order, I don’t think I’ll need to trouble you again.” She held out her hand and he shook it limply.
John Prendergast held the door open for her and followed her down the corridor. “Does that seem all right, ma’am?” he asked innocently as they went.
“I suppose so,” Charlotte conceded grudgingly. “I’ll get one of Scotland Yard’s experts to look at the trust deed when it comes through, but it sounds as if it will stand up to close inspection.” She grinned. “I mustn’t let my prejudice against Giles Adams turn him into a suspect.”
* * * * * * * *
“Inspector Paulson.” Montessori met him in the reception area just inside the main entrance to the hotel. “I have very good news for you. I think you will be very happy to hear my news. Please come into my office.” With a sweeping bow he led the way to the back.
Once inside the claustrophobic little room, he ushered Paulson to the chair in front of his desk. Then he walked across to another door into an adjacent office. “This is what you have been waiting to hear,” he announced in the manner of a circus ringmaster and flung the door open.
Paulson saw a young woman getting hurriedly to her feet in the other room. She was pale skinned with fair hair and a slight stoop. Her expression was worried. She advanced towards the door, smoothing down the skirt of her receptionist outfit.
“Come in. Come in,” said Montessori, a shade impatiently.
The girl came in to the room slowly and reluctantly. She paused just inside the door and nervously moistened her lips.
“This,” continued Montessori, as if he had just extracted a rabbit from a magician’s hat, “is Miss Graves from London. She is our second assistant receptionist. She has something important to tell you.”
He paused and a silence settled on the room. After a moment he urged, “Well then. Go on. Tell the Inspector what it is that you saw.”
“A man with rubber gloves on,” she said obediently.
“What?” Paulson couldn’t disguise that he was startled.
The girl cleared her throat and spoke more clearly in a piping London accent. “On the day of Mrs Adams murder I had just been to the loo. The staff loos is just down the side corridor from the reception, near the West staircase. When I come out of the door, I looked down the corridor towards the West stairs and I saw him there, lookin’ at me - just for a moment like. The next second he turned and went up the stairs. It was then I saw his hands looked very smooth and white - quite creepy they was. When I told Marlene about it she said it sounded like rubber gloves.”
“Who’s Marlene?”
“She’s the other girl what was on reception with me,” said Miss Graves.
“She no here any more,” broke in Montessori. “But I give you her address. I have it in my files.”
“She didn’t see this man?” asked Paulson.
The girl shook her head.
“What’s your first name, Miss Graves?”
“Um - er, Janice.”
“All right, Janice. Sit down here.” Paulson indicated Montessori’s chair. He watched the expression on the manager’s face with amusement as the girl hesitantly lowered her humble posterior into his exalted seat. “Now then, Janice - what time was this?”
She took a quick breath. “You mean - when I seen this man?”
“That’s right.”
“I don’t know really.” She looked towards the manager as though expecting him to help her. “I think it must have been the afternoon or the evening.”
“Can’t you be more explicit than that?” he asked. “I presume that it was still light outside. What hours do you do, Janice?”
“Three till twelve.”
Paulson nodded. “So, it was some time after three. Had you been on duty very long?”
She thought carefully. “Yes - for quite a time. I’d had my ten minute tea break. That’s why I wanted to go to the loo.”
“And what time is your tea break, Janice?”
“Six o’clock.”
“Did you go to the loo soon after that? - say about six-thirty?”
“Yes.” She nodded and smiled with relief and he thought she looked almost pretty. “Yes, I’m sure it was about six-thirty or just after. I always wants to go soon after I’ve had my tea.” Then she suddenly looked embarrassed, as though she had said too much.
“Now then, Janice - this chap you saw,” said Paulson, “do you remember anything about him, other than the fact that he was wearing rubber gloves?”
“Not a lot, really. I only seen him for a minute, like - and the light was behind him. But he was quite big and fat and he was wearing a suit and tie ‘cause I remember I thought he was a businessman.” She said confidentially, “only the businessmen wear suits and ties in the summer.”
“Was he young or old?”
Janice thought about that for a long time. “I don’t think he was young,” she said hesitantly.
“So - he was older.” Paulson had a sudden inspiration. “Was he as old as me, Janice?”
The girl studied him carefully, unaware of the irony in the question. “I think he was maybe younger than you,” she said with unexpected diplomacy.
“Did you see his face?”
“No. The light was behind him you see.”
“Think carefully, Janice,” said the detective. “If you didn’t see his face clearly, what do you think it was about him that made him seem younger than me?”
Her eyes wandered round the room as she thought about it. “I don’t know really. It wasn’t anything about his face or his body.” She frowned, then suddenly she raised a finger. “Wait a minute. I think it was ‘cause of the way he moved as he went to the stairs. It seemed like he was in a hurry. I think he was going to run up the stairs - like a young man might.”
Paulson looked at the carpet to prevent himself from grinning. Clearly Janice thought him quite incapable of running upstairs. “So,” he continued, “you saw this man for a few seconds, then he disappeared up the stairs, probably running.” He turned to Montessori. “The room where Mrs Adams was murdered is close to this staircase, is it?”
“Oh, yes,” confirmed the manager. “It is only three doors away.”
“Right.” The inspector nodded and turned back to the girl. “Now then, Janice, what did you do next?”
“What?”
“Tell me what action you took,” he encouraged. “You didn’t chase after the man, did you? What did you do?”
She looked surprised. “Oh. I just went back to the reception, I suppose.”
“You suppose? Don’t you remember, Janice?”
There was a hiss from the manager.
“Yes.” She nodded to emphasize her point. “Yes, I definitely went straight back. I wanted to tell Marlene about the man with the smooth hands, but she was busy with a visitor. So I told her what I seen later.”
“And what did Marlene say?”
Janice sat back in her chair. “She was the one what said it was rubber gloves. I didn’t believe her at first, ‘cause they was white - like what doctors wear. But I realised, when I thought about it, that she was probably right.”
“So what did you decide to do about it?”
“Do about it?” She looked at him blankly. “We didn’t decide to do nothing about it?”
Paulson took a steadying breath. “When did you and Marlene have your discussion about the rubber gloves? - before or after you heard about the murder of Mrs Adams?”
“Oh - before. We didn’t know nothing about Mrs Adams till the next day.”
“The next day?” He asked, astonished. “But didn’t you see all the police around? They must have come through the reception, surely.”
“Oh yes,” she agreed, “but when we asked what it was all about, Mr Montessori told us we was to mind our own business. When we come in next morning we was told about the murder and then we was told to say nothing to anyone.”
Paulson blinked. “What - not even to the police?”
“Not to no-one,” she persisted.
“So -” The inspector’s voice took on an ominous tone, “you never told anyone about seeing this man wearing the rubber gloves.”
“No-one ‘cept Marlene,” she confirmed.
The inspector turned to Montessori. “Do you realise this could have been vital evidence?” he asked. “Why weren’t we told about it a year ago?”
The manager shrugged. “If I had known, I would have told you immediately. This foolish girl said nothing to me until yesterday when I told all the staff that they had to think again about anything they saw at the time of the murder. That is why I immediately tell you today all about it.”
“But didn’t you ask your staff at the time if they had any information which might be linked to the murder? I distinctly remember asking you, on more than one occasion, whether any of your staff had seen anything or remembered anything strange. We interviewed the staff on the floor where the murder was committed, but we relied on you to volunteer any other information.”
“And I,” said Montessori huffily, “was told by my directors in London that I was to help the police in every way I could, but the hotel was to be disturbed as little as possible. That is why I told all my staff to say nothing about the murder and to keep the guests away from the police as much as possible.”
“You have not exactly been helpful over this matter, Mr Montessori.” Paulson gave his words a ponderous weight. “I regret that I have to remind you again of the serious view which English courts take of people who withhold information from the police.”
But the manager wasn’t so easily cowed this time. “And I remind you,” he accused, “that you broke your word to me when all your police cars came roaring into the hotel entrance with flashing lights and making a dreadful noise.” He gave an offended shrug. “Never mind - I have helped you all I can. Perhaps you now have information about the murderer. I am sorry it is late. But now you can go out and try to find him.”
“It’s not a lot of help after a year.” Paulson’s tone was acid. “I don’t expect the man is still wearing the rubber gloves, do you? If he threw them in a rubbish bin, that will have been cleared by now - even in Torbay in summer.” He took a breath to dispel his rising anger. “All we have now is an impression of a man in a suit and tie who is not young, but younger than me, and probably capable of running upstairs - that should narrow the field to no more than a hundred thousand. Well, thank you for your help, Mr Montessori, even if it is a year too late.” He stood up. “Have you got those answers to the other questions we asked yesterday?”
The manager did another of his extravagant shrugs. “I am sorry. Nobody remembers anything except Miss Graves. I ask everyone, but nobody else can help us.” He inclined his head. “The lady detective - she say that you have to interview the ones with information. There is only Miss Graves and I have arranged that fo
r you.” He shook his head sadly. “I cannot help you any more.”
“OK.” Paulson took another breath and turned away from him. “Well, thank you, Janice. I may have to come back to you for some additional information later, but I think it’s unlikely.” Turning back to Montessori, he said, “you have the name and address of Marlene, I believe.”
The manager crossed to his desk and took a piece of paper from the top drawer with the address on it.
“Thanks.” Paulson nodded to the man, walked to the door and let himself out of the ill-smelling little office.
* * * * * * * *
It was late afternoon when DCI Farady turned the car into the gravel drive in front of the Hillman home. She and Prendergast got out and looked round. The house stood in a little hollow with trees either side. To the rear, as far as they could see, the land fell away towards the coast. The house probably had splendid views.
“Private, but not isolated,” offered John Prendergast.
Charlotte approached the front door and rang the bell. She didn’t know if anyone would be home. When she had tried to ring Lionel Hillman to arrange an interview, neither the people at his office nor at his home knew where he was or when he would be back.
There was a noise behind the door and the next second it was opened by a small, middle-aged woman wearing a frilly apron. Her face seemed to be pointed, like a bird’s, and it was finished off with a beak of a nose. Her hair was dark and wavy, with a shine to it. She looked enquiringly at the inspector.
“Good afternoon,” said Charlotte, showing her warrant card. “I rang a couple of hours ago to ask when Mr Hillman would return. Is he back yet?”
The woman shook her head. “Sorry. I told you, I don’t think he’ll be likely to get home much before seven o’clock.”
“Are you his housekeeper?”
“Well,” said the woman, “he calls me his cook, but I do a bit of cleaning as well.” She shook her head. “Not that he makes much of a mess really. He’s a very tidy sort of man.” She smiled in a conspiratorial way. “It was different when Mrs Hillman was alive.”
Faraday 01 The Gigabyte Detective Page 12
