“Well, I apologise for bringing the matter up again. However - you may have read or heard about the recent article in the Advertiser which raised certain queries about a number of deaths, including your wife’s.”
Hillman’s bonhomie temporarily deserted him. “Yes, I damned well did. It seems as though there are no depths to which the gutter press won’t sink to try and keep up circulation. I checked with my solicitor to find out whether the article was actionable, but he advised me to keep quiet and hope it would soon be forgotten.” He threw his bulk down into his luxurious revolving chair. “So - it’s got you lot going again, has it?”
“Well.” She was amused to find she had touched such a raw nerve. “We would be failing in our duty if we didn’t check up on these matters when they’re raised by other parties.”
“Yes, of course.” He nodded. “I expect you’re as fed up with his silly ideas as I am. And what about all the other poor members of the public who have suffered as a result of this article?”
Charlotte refused to be diverted by his strictures. “Nevertheless, there are certain things which I need to ask you in order to supplement the information which we hold on file about your wife’s death.”
“Ask away.” He pulled his smile back on again. “I don’t think it will help you much. But I suppose you need all the paperwork to be correct.”
“Yes. Well, I have read the report of PC Fleming who was asked to call at your house to take a statement from you the day after your wife’s body was found.” Charlotte looked at her notebook. “I understand Doctor Geoffrey Morton examined the body and decided the cause of death. Then it was he who telephoned the police at eight forty-five the next morning to report the death. Why was it left so long?”
Hillman’s smile became fixed upon his face. “It - it was such a dreadful shock. A person doesn’t think straight when something like that happens. The first thing I did, when I saw her lying there, was immediately get on the phone to Geoffrey to see what he could do. He is an old family friend. He was a great help to me. He made all the arrangements that evening - had the body removed - that sort of thing.” The words seemed to come pouring out of him as though her question had turned on a tap. “Then he stayed and had a few drinks with me. I suppose he didn’t finally leave until after eight. He gave me something to make me sleep and said he would call round on his way to the surgery next morning, to see that I was all right. It was then that he reminded me about informing the police. I’m sorry. I realised afterwards that I should have done something earlier. I just wasn’t thinking straight at the time.”
“I see,” she said, when he paused long enough for her to get a word in. “Now, Mr Hillman, I notice there was a discrepancy in evidence which was cleared up at the inquest. Your statement to PC Fleming said that you had taken down the body and tried to revive your wife. But, in his evidence to the coroner, Doctor Morton said it was your cook, Mrs Anne Stapleton, who had cut down the body and tried to revive her. He said that you had returned later and helped lay the body on the bed. I assume the latter version is correct.”
“Yes.” He passed a hand across his eyes. “Yes, it was explained to the coroner that I had made a mistake. It must have been the shock. The records were altered to explain this lapse of mine.” He shook his head. “But it really didn’t make any difference to the findings, you know.”
Charlotte ignored him. “I notice that no statement was ever taken from Mrs Stapleton, although she was the person who found the body. I understand that she didn’t attend the inquest and that the coroner didn’t ask her to give evidence.” She looked at him obliquely. “Do you know why that was?”
“I haven’t the least idea.” Hillman had regained some of his old bluster. “I suggest you ask him that question.”
“I may have to do that, even though I understand he has now retired to the Channel Islands.” There was a trace of a smile about her features as she said, “Being a very good friend of yours, I’m surprised you weren’t aware of that.”
He hastily looked down to try to hide the smirk.
“Of course,” said Charlotte chattily, “we could always subpoena him if any of these matters went to court.” She was rewarded by seeing the man’s complexion turn rather paler.
“Wouldn’t that be over-reacting in a simple matter of suicide?” he asked, with a gulp.
The DCI changed her line of questioning. “How long had you been married when your wife died, Mr Hillman?”
“Er - sixteen years.”
“I believe she was fifty-six when she died. That means she was forty when you were married.” She looked at him innocently. “Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“And you were two years younger - thirty-eight.”
He nodded. “That’s right.”
“I understand you had no children,” she said. “Was that because of your wife’s age?”
He nodded again.
“You married quite late in life - too late to have a family.” She sat upright in her chair. “Was that a disappointment to you? Did it ever become a cause of friction?”
“No, it did not,” he burst out. “I’m sure you know this already, but I had a previous marriage. Julia was my secretary. There was a very messy divorce which took several years to sort out. By the time Julia and I were able to marry, it was too late for us to have a family. I - I wouldn’t agree to having children before everything was sorted out.”
“Was this a big disappointment to Julia?”
He nodded. “It was at first. But later she came to accept it.”
“Did she?” asked Charlotte. “Or was it always a source of conflict and ill-feeling between you?”
“What do you mean?” He looked at her with loathing. All trace of the former bonhomie had now disappeared.
Faraday gazed straight back at him. “Would you say your marriage was a happy one, Mr Hillman.”
“Yes,” he said defensively, “as happy as any marriage is, which has been going on for the best part of twenty years.”
“A marriage” she said, “where there are no children or other close relatives, and where you have no common interests.” She paused but he didn’t argue. “Did your wife have anything to do with the business after you married her?”
“No.” Hillman looked down at the floor. “My father was still in charge at that time. He took strong exception to my divorce and remarriage. The rest of the family and most of our old friends took their line from him. None of them would have anything to do with Julia for a very long time.”
“So your wife was virtually an outcast?”
His nod was barely perceptible.
“It must have been very difficult for her,” said Charlotte. “From what you’re saying Torbay society would have been closed to her.”
“That’s right,” he agreed. “We hadn’t realised how old-fashioned the place was.”
“So what did you do about it?”
He shook his head. “Nothing. There was nothing we could do. At first Julia wanted us to sell up and move away. But I pointed out to her that it wasn’t so easy to do something like that. All the property (even our house) was tied in with the business. I had no educational qualifications. I wouldn’t find it easy to pick up another job. Our standard of living would have been much worse. We might have been on the bread-line.” He sighed. “I told her that my father wouldn’t live forever. His health was failing already. We just had to wait for the illness to take its course.”
“And did it?”
He looked at her. “The old boy lasted another fourteen years. In the end he died only two years before Julia.” He lowered his head and shook it slowly. “By then the damage had been done.”
“What damage?”
“To Julia.” He said it very slowly. “To us.”
Charlotte didn’t feel like a policeman any more. She felt that she could see the private tragedy unreeling in front of her eyes. But she felt compelled to ask, “What exactly happened, Mr Hillman?”
“That didn’t solve your problems.” The observation slipped from her lips by mistake.
But Hillman didn’t argue with her. “No, you’re right. Of course, the next thing that happened was that she started going out by herself. She used to drive to Plymouth or Exeter and wander round there. God knows what used to happen to her or who she used to meet. By then I didn’t care any longer. In fact, it was something of a relief. She used to keep her drinking under control when she was driving. We virtually lived separate lives.”
“Mr Hillman,” asked Faraday carefully, “do you know whether she formed any close relationships with any men?”
“I don’t know.” He shook his head. “We reached a sort of working arrangement. Neither of us would ask the other about what they were doing. I didn’t want any bad publicity. By then I was starting to get involved in politics. You may have heard that I ended up becoming mayor.”
“You were mayor when your wife died?”
“That’s right.” His smile had regained some of its ebullience. “Well, we agreed that as long as I picked up the expense of keeping her, she would act the part of my consort when I needed her for public events. Otherwise we left each other alone. My father died and he’d been very poorly for a year or two before that happened. The other family and friends seemed to accept the situation by then. It was actually starting to work rather well.”
“So - what did you think when you saw her lying there, dead?” asked Charlotte.
He was quiet for a long time before he replied. “I was shocked, but I didn’t really feel anything for Julia.” Then he stopped himself. “Yes, I did. I felt very sorry for her.”
“Why sorry for her?”
“I don’t know exactly.” He pursed his lips. “I suppose I was sad to see what kind of an end she had come to. Once upon a time she had been a splendid woman, full of energy and drive, a superb consort for a businessman on his way up.” He shook his head again. “All that had been destroyed long before she hung herself.”
“Do you still believe she committed suicide?”
Of course.” He looked at her sharply. “What else? I didn’t kill her, if that’s what you mean.”
“I know you didn’t.” Her voice was soothing. “I’m aware that you have an unshakeable alibi for several hours either side of the likely time of death.”
“And I didn’t arrange for somebody else to do it, if that’s what you’re thinking. She and I may have drawn apart, but I had no reason to do that sort of thing. In fact, I would say that we were getting on better at the time she died than we had done for quite a few years.”
“That,” said Charlotte, “is also a reason why she would be less likely to kill herself. She had probably been through the worst of her experiences and was starting to come out the other side, wouldn’t you say?”
He looked at her carefully, as though trying to see a deeper meaning. His reply was a reluctant, “I suppose so.”
“So,” she said, “I repeat my question. Please think very carefully about all the people the two of you knew. Can you think of anybody who she might have formed a close relationship with?”
“Why are you asking me this?” His eyes narrowed suspiciously.
Charlotte tried to think of the best way to put it. “I can’t give you the details,” she said, “but we have reason to think that there may have been some sort of sexual connection with your wife’s death.”
“Sexual connection?” he asked. “What does that mean?”
“I think your wife may have been having an affair with someone - perhaps only quite a short affair, but possibly intense.” She paused. “I got the impression from you that the two of you hadn’t slept together for some time. Am I right?”
“You think this person killed her and then rigged it up to look like suicide?”
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “But if we can find out who was meeting your wife, we’ll be one big step closer to solving our mystery.” She leaned forward. “I know this happened nearly three years ago. But I would be very grateful if you would try and remember everyone who you and your wife might have met in the few weeks before her death. And I particularly want you to think about your wife’s attitude to any men she might have met in your company - did she seem different in any way?” She stood up. “I don’t expect you to do it now. But try and think about it over the weekend and see what you come up with. I’ll give you a call early next week to see if you’ve had any bright ideas.” She walked to the door. “Thank you for your time, Mr Hillman.”
She went out, leaving him staring after her with a strange expression on his face.
* * * * * * * *
Inspector Paulson had phoned ahead to warn the coastguards at Start Point that he was on his way. He found the gate was unlocked at the top of the roadway along the peninsula which led to the Point. He shut the gate behind him and drove down the narrow lane, which was cut along the side of the headland, to the group of buildings sheltering behind the lighthouse.
The gates to the coastguard complex stood open. As he pulled into the little yard a square man with a dark beard and a blue fisherman’s sweater stepped out of the nearest door.
Stafford got out of the car. “Adam Shakespeare?”
The man nodded curtly and accepted the proffered hand-shake with some reluctance.
“You want to speak to me about the Billiere boat which ran aground on Slapton Sands?” Shakespeare obviously didn’t bother with preliminaries. “Don’t forget that were two year ago.”
“I know,” agreed Paulson. “I just wanted to ask you a few questions about what you remember when you boarded the boat.”
The coastguard shook his head doubtfully. “I can’t promise nothin’”
He didn’t invite the policeman into any of the buildings behind him. So Stafford had no alternative but to continue the questioning outside. “Do you remember where the boat ran aground?”
“Over there.” Shakespeare pointed across the wide bay to the long beach about five miles away. Then even he seemed to admit that he wasn’t giving enough information. He went and leaned on the low wall, looking fiercely into the distance as though trying to see through time. “It was about quarter of a mile north of the main car park.” He nodded to himself. “Billiere was lucky.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“When I got there,” said the coastguard, “I found the boat had gone bow first onto the beach. It must have run aground very slowly at about low tide. The shore-line shelves quite steeply at that point. That meant, as the tide rose, that the twin screws kept the bow nudging up the beach. The engines were low on fuel and they were throttled right back. Gradually the boat swung until its starboard side was against the beach. The starboard screw must have bit into the fine gravel and stalled the starboard engine. Even at such a slow speed, he was lucky it didn’t bugger up the prop-shaft. When I got there the port engine was still running, but it was nearly out of fuel.”
Paulson was puzzled. “So what did that mean? When you’re out in a boat like that, do you normally run it with the engines throttled back?”
“You only throttle back for two reasons,” said Shakespeare. “When you’re manoeuvring, like going into harbour or coming alongside another vessel, or when you want to stay virtually still but just maintain steerage way - perhaps if you’re fishing or something like that.”
“Like having a bonk down below,” said the inspector, almost to himself.
“What?” The other man looked at him sharply, not quite sure
whether to laugh or be shocked.
“Never mind.” Paulson leaned on the wall and looked at him. “What sort of speed through the water would the boat have made with the engines throttled back like that?”
The coastguard shrugged. “I dunno. One, two knots maybe - not more than that.”
“If someone had fallen overboard at that speed, would they have been able to swim back to the boat and climb on board?”
“Depends on how good a swimmer they were, but it’s unlikely,” said Shakespeare. “Even if they did, they’d find it difficult to grab hold of something and pull themselves aboard, with their clothes weighed down with water and the shock of the cold sea water.” He paused and thought. “The boat had a transom ladder but it wasn’t lowered. I know, ‘cause I had to release it myself before I could climb aboard.”
Paulson nodded. “When you went aboard, how did you find the controls? I believe the wheel wasn’t tied.”
“Didn’t need to be,” said the man. “It’s one of them modern, self-centring types - that means you can let go the wheel while you’re doing something else and the boat will keep going in a straight line. As I said, it’s lucky for Billiere that it was.” He checked over the scene again in his mind. “The throttles were set to run very slow. The GPS was switched off. But you’d expect that within sight of the coast on a clear night like that.” He looked up. “Oh - the other thing was that there were no lights on.”
“What does that mean?”
Shakespeare looked at him. “Either the woman was a damned fool or she left the boat before it got dark.”
“So,” said the policeman, “she leaves the marina at Torquay at about seven-thirty. She rounds Berry Head and passes the mouth of the Dart - how far is that?”
“Oh - ‘bout fifteen to eighteen miles.”
“Right - how long would that take her?”
“Depends on how fast she was travelling,” said the coastguard. “Those things’ll shift, you know, if they wants to.”
“Let’s say she was travelling at half-throttle.”
The man grimaced, concentrating on his calculations. “I suppose she’d be doing about ten knots. It’d be high tide about nine - mainly slack water.” He nodded approvingly to himself. “So I’d say one and a half to two hours.”
Faraday 01 The Gigabyte Detective Page 16
