Faraday 01 The Gigabyte Detective

by Michael Hillier

  “Ah,” said Charlotte, “so you knew Mrs Hillman, did you? Was that Mrs Julia Hillman?”

  The woman nodded. “That’s right. I knew her, all right.”

  “We actually want to ask some questions about Mrs Hillman,” said the inspector. “Perhaps you could help us. Can we come in?”

  There was a moment’s hesitation and Charlotte wondered whether the woman was going to refuse. But then she stepped back and held the door open for them. “You’d better come into the kitchen,” she said. “I oughtn’t to entertain visitors in the living room.”

  The large kitchen was at the side of the house. The sharp, fresh smell of peeled potatoes assailed them as they entered. Presumably she was preparing the vegetables for dinner.

  “What’s your name?” asked Charlotte.

  “Mrs Stapleton,” she said brusquely and then relented. “Annie Stapleton.”

  “Tell me, Annie, were you working here three years ago?”

  She nodded sharply. The impression was of a chicken preparing to pick up corn in its beak.

  Charlotte smiled sympathetically. “So you know about Mrs Hillman’s death.”

  “Know about it?” The dark little eyes sparkled. “It was me who cut the body down.”

  There was a brief silence. Charlotte glanced at Prendergast. “That must have been very distressing for you.”

  “Distressing?” Annie appeared to take out the word and inspect it before she continued. “Yes, I suppose it was distressing in a way?”

  “Have you ever told the police or the authorities what happened?”

  The woman shook her head.

  “Why not, Annie?” asked Charlotte. “Didn’t anyone ever ask you?”

  “I suppose they didn’t,” she said slowly. “Mr Hillman said to me, ‘Don’t worry yourself about this, Annie. I’ll talk to the police. I’ll deal with all the questions.’ So you’re the first ones who’ve ever asked me anything - except my Cyril, that is.”

  “Cyril’s your husband, is he?”

  Annie just nodded.

  “And so you were the first person to find Mrs Hillman’s body?” asked Charlotte. “The police evidence was that Mr Hillman had been the one who found the body. However the coroner’s report corrected that, but you were never called to give evidence.”

  “That’s right.”

  The DCI went on, “do you mind telling us exactly what happened?”

  “Of course I don’t,” she said. “I knew it would all have to come out some time.”

  Charlotte glanced at Prendergast. He was busily making notes against the list of questions they had expected Lionel Hillman to be answering. “What time did you find the body, Annie?” she asked gently.

  “When I came back at four o’clock.” Mrs Stapleton straightened her back. “My hours are eight to eleven and four to seven. Always have been.” She paused for a second. “I don’t know what made me go upstairs to check. I think it was because everything was so quiet - too quiet for my liking. Anyway, there she was, hanging there - and her room was in a dreadful mess.”

  “So what did you do?”

  Annie tossed her head. “I knew she was dead straight away because her face was all blue round the mouth and her tongue was hanging out. I ran and got the garden shears and cut through her dressing-gown belt, just in case - but I knew she was dead.”

  “What did you do next?”

  “I knew Mr Hillman was at the golf club. He always was, Wednesday afternoons. So I rang the golf club and left a message for him to say it was very urgent for him to come home.” She gave a bleak smile. “I knew he’d come, because I would never ring him unless it was something very important.”

  “How long did it take for him to get home?”

  She thought for a moment. “I expect about half an hour.”

  “What did you do during that time?” asked Charlotte. “Didn’t you ring the doctor or the police?”

  “I didn’t want to do anything without Mr Hillman saying.” She pursed her lips. “It wasn’t for me to decide what to do.”

  “So did you decide to go downstairs and wait?”

  Annie shook her head. “No. I thought I should take off the things she was wearing. I thought Mr Hillman shouldn’t see her wearing those things she had on, even though…” She left the words hanging in mid-air.

  “What things was she wearing, Annie?” Charlotte probed gently.

  “I don’t know how you’d describe them exactly.” Annie looked uncomfortable. “Lacy, coloured underclothes they were - the sort of thing you’d expect a young tart in her twenties to be wearing. They made her look as if she wasn’t fit to be Mr Hillman’s wife, if you know what I mean - him being mayor and all.”

  Charlotte glanced again at Prendergast. His head was buried over his note-pad as he scribbled away. But the back of his neck seemed to have gone red. “Did she often wear underclothes like that?” she asked.

  “I don’t know,” said Mrs Stapleton. “I never seen them before. But I only hoovered her bedroom every day. I didn’t do anything with her clothes.”

  “You say ‘her bedroom’,” prompted Charlotte. “Did Mr and Mrs Hillman sleep in separate rooms?”

  Annie shook her head. “I don’t know where they slept. But Mrs Hillman had her own bedroom and bathroom where she dressed and where she would go to lie down sometimes. That’s where I used to take her breakfast in the mornings.”

  “And Mr Hillman wasn’t there with her?”

  “Oh no,” she said. “He’d always gone to work by then.”

  Charlotte took a breath. “So, let’s return to Mrs Hillman’s body that day. You say you removed all her underclothes. Is that right?”

  “Yes. When I cut her down she fell in a heap on the floor and she was too heavy for me to move by myself, but I managed to get them undone.” She blushed a trifle. “I cut through the knickers with the shears.”

  There was a splutter from Prendergast which drew a reproachful glance from the cook. Charlotte said, “My goodness,” and thought what a resourceful person this woman was.

  “After all, she wouldn’t need them again,” said Annie in an almost callous way. “Then I put them in a drawer in her dressing-table so that Mr Hillman shouldn’t see them when he came home. And I covered Mrs Hillman with her dressing-gown - er - negligee.”

  “And what happened next?”

  “I waited for Mr Hillman,” she said simply. “He was home only a few minutes after that. I told him that I’d found Mrs Hillman hanging from the hook in the centre of the room, and that I’d cut down the body. I didn’t tell him about the under-clothes. I helped him to lift her body onto the bed and to pull her - um - negligee on to her body. Then he told me to ring the doctor and to go and wait in the kitchen. So I made myself a cup of tea.”

  “Did you speak to the doctor?”

  She nodded. “When he came downstairs, I did. He just checked with me what I done - er - did. Mr Hillman had already told him that I’d cut down her body and tried to revive her.” Her eyes widened. “I just agreed with that, like.”

  “Is that all?”

  “I think so.” Annie thought for a minute. “Oh, no. The doctor asked me what she looked like when I first found her and I told him she was looking just like she did when he seen her except that she was hanging. And he said thank you very much for trying to save her.”

  “He didn’t want to know why she didn’t have any clothes on?” asked Charlotte.

  “She had her dressing-gown on. I suppose he thought that was all right. I haven’t told anyone but you about the under-clothes - not even Mr Hillman. I didn’t think it was right. I put them in the dustbin the next day.”

  “What’s the name of the doctor, Annie?”

  “Doctor Morton.“She shook her head. “If you want to talk to him you won’t have no luck. He was killed in a car crash about a year and a half ago.”

  “That’s a pity.” Charlotte thought about all she’d learned. Technically the woman had failed to provide evi
dence which might have altered the coroner’s verdict. But it was a fine point, in view of the fact that she had never been questioned by the police. “Annie,” she asked, “did you say that you never saw police come to the house?”

  She looked a little confused. “I didn’t see any detectives - like you. I think the ordinary police came to the house soon after and spoke to Mr Hillman, but they didn’t ever ask to speak to me.”

  Charlotte walked over to the window and looked out. There was a little concrete area outside the back door, with a couple of dustbins and a small shed under a tree A path wound down the slope among bushes on its way to the back of the house. The place didn’t look very secure from this view-point. She turned back to face the cook.

  “Annie, those funny under-clothes, which Mrs Hillman was wearing when she died, are possibly very important. You say you had never suspected before that she ever wore that sort of thing?”

  “No.” But her reply seemed hesitant.

  It made Charlotte ask, “However, am I correct in thinking you did suspect that something wasn’t quite right about her behaviour?”

  Annie nodded reluctantly. “Yes. I suppose that’s right.”

  “Did you have any ideas about what it was?”

  The woman shook her head. Her expression was almost obstinate.

  “Come now.” There was a touch of impatience in Charlotte’s voice. “You had worked for her and Mr Hillman for a number of years. You were here six hours a day. You cleaned their private rooms. You must have seen things from time to time which made you wonder what was going on.”

  “Well.” Annie was hesitant. “I must say, I did wonder sometimes. But I was never sure.”

  “And what did you wonder? Tell me, Annie.”

  She looked all round the kitchen before she raised her eyes to look at Faraday again. “Well, she used to drink a lot once upon a time, but that had got better in the last few months. And again, I heard that she often went out on her own in the evenings. Of course, it all set me thinking.” She paused and waved a hand at the inspector. “I don’t really know, mind - so you must never tell Mr Hillman that I told you - but I did wonder if she had another man.”

  “Ah. I thought so.” Charlotte let out her breath. “How long do you think this had been going on for - before she was murdered?”

  Mrs Stapleton shook her head, perplexed. “I don’t know, really. It’s difficult to say when these things first enter your mind. But I don’t think it had been going on for very long.”

  “And did you ever see anyone at the house who might have been the other man?”

  “I can’t think of anyone.” She looked up defiantly. “But then they wouldn’t have done it when I was around, would they?”

  “You never saw a car driving away from the house when you were coming to work here, or anything like that?”

  Annie shook her head. “Can’t think of anyone.”

  Charlotte felt as though the woman was putting up the shutters - as though she was afraid she’d already said too much. So she decided to bring the interview to an end. “All right, Annie.” She held out her hand. “You’ve been very helpful. I’ll try not to trouble you again, although I might need to come back to confirm a couple of points. Can you ask Mr Hillman to ring this number when he comes home.” She handed the cook a card with her details on. “I would like to see him as soon as possible. I shan’t tell him what you’ve told me of course, so you can say as little or as much to him as you wish. Is that all right?”

  Mrs Stapleton nodded several times in her bird-like way.

  “OK, John?” Charlotte made for the door. “Thank you, Annie.”

  As they walked to the car John Prendergast let out his breath. “Wow. What have we uncovered here?”

  Charlotte smiled. “I’m looking forward to talking to Lionel Hillman. You can drive, John. We’ll go back via Druce’s Hill House and pick up the list from the Burrows.” She made for the passenger door.

  * * * * * * * *

  Stafford Paulson realised that he was getting mentally involved in the revived investigations into the Cynthia Adams murder. There was something about young Charlotte Faraday and her fantastic computer that took him back to the exciting days when he had first been transferred onto DI Smith’s team. He was beginning to see how far he had sunk over the years into the boring routine of detective work. Somewhere along the way he’d lost his enthusiasm for the job. Perhaps this new woman was changing his attitude.

  So he decided to call in at the marina on his way back to the station. He parked his car in the underground car park and walked through to the little office which looked down onto the rows of pontoons where the boats were moored. He knew who he wanted to speak to.

  “Do you know where Jimmy Tate is?” he asked the security man sitting in the corner of the office, reading a magazine about pop music.

  “He’s wandering around somewhere,” the young man said. “Jimmy’s always poking around somewhere.”

  That was why Paulson wanted to talk to him. Jimmy Tate was one of those nosey old boys beloved of detectives. He knew every owner of every boat on the marina - who their wives and family and close friends were, what times they were most likely to visit their boats or take them out, where they would choose to go and what time they would probably return. He would spot an intruder instantly at any time of day and was likely to follow him to see whether he was a legitimate visitor or someone who ought to be turned out on his ear. He also had a prodigious memory and a useful tendency to make notes of unrecognized car numbers and other such information. Stafford thought that he was much under-valued by the owners of the marina and the people who kept their boats there. He himself certainly had cause to be grateful to the man for helping him with his enquiries on a number of occasions.

  He went outside and walked to the top of the sloping ramp which led down to the pontoons. The tide was low and he had a good view of most of the marina. Sure enough, he picked out Jimmy on the end of one of the pontoons - a small, slightly-hunched figure in his beige cardigan and grey bags. He was watching a client inexpertly manoeuvring his gin palace, stern-first, into a space big enough to have accommodated an ocean-going cruiser. Paulson started to walk towards him without hurrying.

  Nevertheless Tate must have sensed him coming and turned to meet him. “Afternoon inspector.” His face took on the slightly guilty smile some people have when they talk to the police - as though they have some secret, illicit thoughts and are afraid they’ll give themselves away. “What can I help you with?”

  “I know what a good memory you’ve got, Jimmy,” said Paulson. “Do you remember the business about two years ago, when Alfred de Billiere’s wife fell overboard from their motor cruiser and drowned?”

  “Course I do.” The old boy nodded helpfully. “He still keeps his boat here. He and his new wife come down from time to time. In fact he leaves me a key in case I need to go on board. Do you want to have a look at it?”

  “That’d be helpful,” agreed the inspector.

  “I’ve got it here.” He indicated the massive bunch which hung from his belt. “Follow me. It’s halfway down pontoon C.”

  Paulson followed obediently as Jimmy shuffled over the smooth planking.

  “That was a funny business,” Tate volunteered over his shoulder

  His tone alerted Paulson. “What do you mean, Jimmy?”

  “I mean - why ever should an idle bird like Joanne Billiere suddenly decide to take a great big boat like that out to sea.” He shook his head. “She’d never done it before.”

  “Did she often come down to the boat?”

  Jimmy put his head on one side. “Yes, from time to time, when she was bored with being by herself at home. In the summer she’d come down in her tight white trousers and striped sweater and open up the place and stretch out on the after-deck with a gin in her hand hoping to see somebody she could talk to. She even invited me to take a drink with her in my earlier days, when I looked a bit more presentable.”


  “Really?” grinned Paulson. “Did you accept?”

  “Not bloody likely.” There was little mirth in his chuckle. “My Glenda would have had my guts for garters if word had ever got back to her that I was taking drinks with somebody like that.”

  “Like what?” asked the inspector innocently.

  Tate pulled a face. “I heard she was a real goer, was our Joanne. All sorts of things were supposed to have happened down below on her boat.”

  “Did you ever see any of this happening?”

  They had reached a large, expensive-looking gin palace. Jimmy turned and looked at him with affected innocence. “Any of what?”

  “Any of these things,” said Paulson, “which you allege were supposed to have happened down below on her boat.”

  “Course I didn’t,” retorted the old man. “Look here.” He pointed at the boat. “The bedrooms are down below. The only windows are those little slits under the gunwale with curtains pulled across them. Nobody’s going to see anything down there, are they?”

  Paulson sniffed. “But that doesn’t mean she was forever disappearing down to the sleeping cabin with various men. Surely someone would have seen them going.”

  “Course they wouldn’t,” said Jimmy. “It’s the easiest thing in the world. The man’s down at the marina on his own. His wife thinks he’s playing around with his boat. She’d much sooner stay at home and watch Coronation Street. The man decides to call on our lady for a drink and they sit and exchange chit-chat. Evening’s coming on - it’s starting to get dark. Joanne says she’s feeling cold and she’s going below to put a jumper on. She gets up and disappears inside and doesn’t come back. The man finishes his drink, looks round and sees no-one’s watching, so he gets up and walks inside where she’s got herself all ready for him. Nothing could be easier.”

  “You dirty old bugger,” laughed Paulson. “You’ve got it all worked out, haven’t you? I reckon you’ve done this sort of thing a few times yourself. Wait till I tell Glenda about you. Talk about guts for garters.”

  Jimmy flushed but didn’t retreat. “I tell you this sort of thing goes on all the time down here. You get to recognize the types - and Joanne Billiere was one of those. Regular stopping off point, she was, for some of the guys. Anyway, come and have a look round.” He led the way down the gang plank onto the after-deck and unlocked the wide patio doors to the main cabin.