Back at Adam and Eve House, she found the picture of quiet repose she had come upon when she had first arrived had gone. As if it had never been. The full noontide sun was bleaching the faded red brick of the old building into dazzled nothingness. Even the monotonously calling, mate-seeking cuckoo had been silenced. Much as she herself — a wry internal smile — had succeeded now, just, in silencing that part of her mind that kept calling Anselm, Anselm, Anselm.
Instead the whole place was alive with Leven Vale and Greater Birchester officers searching like so many cumbrous bumblebees for something to feed on. Without, however, any success so far, as Sgt Wintercombe lugubriously informed her.
‘No, ma’am, I’ve had the grounds searched again by your team from Greater Birchester, and my chaps have fanned out half a mile into the fields. But nothing at all to show for it.’
‘And down by the river? Any signs at all there? Whoever we’re looking for may have actually come from across it. From Greater Birchester Police territory into yours, Sergeant.’
‘No, ma’am. I’ve had them down there on hands and knees, but the mud at the river bank’s so hard, what with there not having been any rain for weeks, it’s not surprising they found nothing.’
‘Right. But in the house itself?’
‘I didn’t like to send anybody in there, ma’am. Not without direct orders from DI Brent or yourself. I mean, there shouldn’t be anything to find, should there?’
Or shouldn’t there, she said to herself. Isn’t it just as likely that Bubbles Xingara was killed by an intimate, by one of the family, as by someone from outside? And that person could well have concealed the weapon somewhere indoors. But what the devil is that weapon anyhow?
Giving orders to put some of the Birchester squad into going over the big house, she made her own way inside, thinking which of its inhabitants she would tackle first. Eventually she chose the live-in gardener, Arthur Fairley. After all, she thought, a handyman would be the likeliest to have access to some large spiked tool. And, as day after day he had seen butterfly Bubbles flitting round the house, or athlete Bubbles running through the dawn mists, he could well have become prey to the sexual call. Have attempted this morning to force himself on her.
She found him in the kitchen. He was sitting at the big deeply scrubbed whitewood table, with above him a cluster of ancient ceiling-hooks for, she thought, long-stored winter hams. At the far end, the big open fireplace had its iron spit still in place, and an ancient dresser had equally its shelves lined with bright pieces of old delftware. But, in contrast, round the rest of the walls there were up-to-the-minute cookers, big refrigerators, a long freezer cabinet, and painted built-in cupboards, all bought no doubt by that corporate-at-fifteen millionaire, Bubbles Xingara.
Arthur Fairley, who seemed to be just finishing a solitary midday meal, teapot in its padded, flower-decorated cosy in front of him, got to his feet with the easy action of a man always in good physical shape. A deeply tanned face with a pair of keen-looking brown eyes, a big, generous nose, a mouth straight and firmly set. Aged forty-five or perhaps fifty, his dark hair grey at the sides. Open-necked workshirt, grimed-over cord trousers, heavy rubber boots. Smudge of handyman’s black grease on the back of his hand.
‘Mr Fairley?’ she said. ‘I am Detective Superintendent Martens, in charge of the investigation here.’
‘Good morning, madam. Or afternoon now, isn’t it? Just, anyhow.’
‘Yes. Yes, I suppose it is. But your wife, Mr Fairley, is she not eating with you?’
‘Ah, no. Betty takes her dinner later, so she can serve the family their lunch. Not that much’ll be eaten in the dining-room today.’
‘No, I suppose not. They must have all taken it pretty hard.’
‘They have in their different ways, what I’ve seen of them, and what my Betty’s told me.’
‘Oh, yes?’
Gossip going to flow? Or not?
He seemed to be asking himself the same question. For as much as half a minute he stood where he was, eyes steady in thought. But then he spoke.
‘Takes all sorts different ways.’
‘Yes. Yes, it does. At least that’s what I’ve always found. And I’ve learnt, too, not to place too much reliance on first impressions.’
It worked.
‘But take a seat,’ Arthur Fairley said. ‘And there’ll be another cup in the pot, if you’d like that.’
‘I certainly would. I’ve been too busy since first thing this morning to think about refreshment.’
‘Then I dare say there’ll be a biscuit or two in the tin.’
He went across to one of the built-in cupboards, opened its door and, stooping easily, brought out a colourful old biscuit-tin. He put it on the big scrubbed wood table — how long has that been here in this very room, Harriet asked herself — pulled off the lid with its picture of two countryfolk lovers, arms entwined under an archway of roses, and inspected the contents.
‘Plenty there,’ he said. ‘Help yourself, and don’t feel obliged to go easy. Miss Bubbles wasn’t ever one to spare.’
‘Did she take charge of the housekeeping herself then?’
Suddenly ravenously hungry, with the sugary, crisp-baked smell of the biscuits striking her nostrils, she dipped a hand in, took whatever her fingers first grasped.
‘Ah, no, not really,’ Arthur Fairley said. ‘That’s all done nowadays by Miss Diplock. Secretary, they call her, but from what I’ve heard she’s just a friend of Miss Bubbles from that posh school they were at before Miss Bubbles went to America.’
‘I see. It must have been nice for Miss Xingara to have been able to give her a job.’
‘Well, nice for Miss Bubbles, of course. But not so nice for Miss Diplock, her having been what you might call a rich kid when Miss Bubbles was at that school only because of her tennis. I’ll say this, though: Miss Bubbles was never one to crow over someone she’d outpaced, as you might say. Whatever Miss Fiona felt about it herself.’
Something here? The jealousy of someone who, once having seen herself as higher up the tree, was now reduced to — call it secretary, call it friend — something of an object of charity? Not the most obvious of motives for murder, but to be borne in mind. Stifled hatred behind more than one case I’ve investigated.
‘So how long has Miss Diplock been here?’
‘Oh, just about a year. Ever since Mrs Renshaw found the house too much for her.’
‘She’s not been well, Mrs Renshaw?’
‘Not for me to say.’
The set mouth tightening. All right to gossip about a fellow employee, but a line to be drawn at disloyalty to an employer.
So withdraw. But only a little.
‘But, Miss Diplock — Fiona, did you say her name was? — how does she cope with housekeeping? Or being a secretary, come to that?’
‘Well enough. The wife and I know what’s to be done, far as the house goes, and how to do it. I don’t know about secretary, but she spends long enough fiddling about with that computer. Keeping everything up to date, she told me once. And the number of letters she has to answer. What you call the fanmail ...’
‘Yes, I suppose there’d be a lot of that. And I dare say we’ll have to go through it all before we’re done. If it turns out we’re looking for a stalker of some sort. Somebody out of nowhere. You didn’t see anyone out of the ordinary, did you, hanging about first thing this morning?’
‘I have to say I didn’t. I was up by five all right. Like to get something done on the tennis court, in the old kitchen garden, soon as it’s light. But that’s well shut-off by its walls, so I wouldn’t have seen anybody if they were lurking about. And I didn’t hear anything either.’
‘Not any sort of scream, when she ... ?’
‘No. No, but then it’s likely I wouldn’t have. You don’t hear much inside there, bar an aeroplane or two going over sometimes and that cuckoo singing away fit to bust.’
‘I see. And your wife, is she generally up as early a
s five? She didn’t mention seeing anybody about by any chance?’
‘Well, no. No, she gets up at seven when the alarm rings, plenty of time to get the breakfasts then. So I don’t suppose Betty would’ve seen anybody. When I slip out of bed myself she’s always sound asleep. Sleeps like a log till that clock goes racketing off, summer and winter alike.’
‘But how about you in the day or two before this? Anybody hanging round who’d no business to be?’
‘Well, no, nobody I can recall. Unless you count Old Rowley.’
‘Old Rowley? He was here?’
‘Oh, yes, the silly old fool. He was here yesterday morning, not in the house but hanging about a couple of hundred yards down the lane. I know what he was wanting. But he has his fits of being scared, and I dare say he shied away when he caught a glimpse of me.’
‘But what was it he did want?’
‘Oh, just to be given an odd job, if one was going. I’d found him bits of work once or twice in the past. More out of kindness, really. He was never up to much.’
‘But, when you were employing him, he would have seen Miss Xingara about the place?’
‘No. No, he wouldn’t have done that. This was before the Renshaws came, while they were still in America for Miss Bubbles’ career. I mean, Old Rowley must have been remembering he’d had odd jobs here. I suppose he’s out of work just now, out of gaol, too, I dare say, and was hoping he’d get something from me again.’
‘I see. You know we found him this morning sleeping under a hedge not very far away?’
‘Oh, yes. I saw your chaps bringing him in. But don’t get it into your head he’s the one you’re looking for. Doubt if he’s strong enough. And he’s certainly not vicious enough, ask me.’
‘Yes. Yes, I think you may be right. Well, thank you for your help.’
*
As much as I’m likely to draw out of Arthur Fairley, at least for the time being. So who now? The ex-school-friend secretary? Or the mother who’s given up looking after her rich daughter’s house?
Yes, her. Mrs Aimée Renshaw.
Harriet found her in her sitting-room upstairs, next to the large husband-and-wife bedroom, belonging once no doubt to Adam and Evelina, love-birds.
Whore’s parlour were the words that came into Harriet’s head as, her knock answered, she stepped inside, well though she knew prostitutes’ premises were decidedly different from this soft room, cloyingly full of perfume. Its flowered wallpaper with even more roses on it than had sheltered the lovers on the kitchen biscuit-tin. Curtains in the same pattern, all but closed against the bright outdoors sunshine, leaving everything in dimness, the large mirror over the empty fireplace, the baby-blue carpet, two chintz-covered armchairs. In one of these, pinkly plump Aimée Renshaw was sitting, silk summer dress in a pattern of mauve indeterminate flowers, short-sleeved and cut very low to show an expanse of blooming, if faintly crinkled, flesh.
Harriet put her age down as something over fifty, though every effort had been made to take off ten years, or more. But liberally applied make-up, however soft in tone, can always be seen through by eyes prepared to look, and golden-dyed hair will fool only males prepared to be fooled.
She introduced herself formally.
‘But — What — What does a police officer want with me? Who are you anyway? How am I to believe you’re –– what did you say? — a detective superintendent? You could be anybody.’
‘Mrs Renshaw, I’ve shown you my warrant card.’
‘Oh, how should I know what that was? It might have been somebody’s driving licence, anything. And in any case I haven’t got my glasses. How can you expect ...’
‘I could show it to you again. Let you have a longer look at it. Even hunt for your glasses, if you like. But really none of that should be necessary. All I want is to ask you a few questions about your daughter. To help us find whoever it was who did that to her this morning.’
‘Bubbles. My poor Bubbles. Inspector — Superintendent, whatever you are, you can’t have any idea what a darling that girl was. It — It’s too cruel. No one should have ...’
‘Yes. Yes, Mrs Renshaw. No one should have taken her life. But someone did, and I am determined, however long it may take, to bring that person to justice. So, please, will you listen carefully to what I ask, and do your best to answer as fully as possible.’
‘All right. All right. You think I’m a silly old fool, don’t you? But I’m not, you know. I haven’t lived through two marriages and heaven knows how many –– two marriages, and not known which way is up.’
‘I’m sure you do. So, can you tell me first whether you were up and about early enough this morning to see someone, a stranger of any sort, anywhere near the house?’
‘Up? At dawn? Or whenever it is Bubbles goes for those runs of hers? No, no. No, I have to have my beauty sleep. A girl needs that. To be at her best. So, no. No, I’ve no idea who was prowling about round the house at that sort of hour. Who was it, Inspector?’
‘We don’t know, Mrs Renshaw. We don’t know whether there was anybody. It’s just that I thought you might have been out of bed, if only for a few minutes. A call of nature, perhaps. And you might have looked out.’
‘No, no, I wasn’t. I didn’t. Thank goodness, I’ve not got to the stage yet of having to wee-wee every hour of the night. What if I’d had someone in bed with me? Not that I did, you know. But, well, I might have done, mightn’t I?’
‘You mean your husband?’ Harriet said, though she knew perfectly well that, real or imaginary, that bed visitor was not supposed to be a legitimate spouse.
Aimée Renshaw smirked.
‘Well, it would have to be my husband, wouldn’t it? Not that he spends much time in my bed these days. Goes off to the spare room, accusing me of snoring. As if I would.’
So, Harriet thought, there’s Peter Renshaw, in the full vigour of life, as I saw him earlier, and not sharing his wife’s bed, if what she’s been burbling about means what I think it does. So, was he sharing some other bed? Was his interest directed towards his pretty, effervescent stepdaughter? Or towards someone else? Like perhaps the secretary, Bubbles’ friend? And, if so, is that relevant to my inquiries? Well, Peter Renshaw was definitely up and about at six, so Fiona Diplock, if they are lovers, may well have been about at that hour too. And have seen someone?
‘Well, if you weren’t awake first thing this morning,’ she said to Aimée Renshaw, ‘you weren’t. I may have to come back and ask you other questions. But, for the present, thank you for your help.’
Thank you for precious little, she thought, closing the door of the too sweet-smelling, prettified room behind her. What have I learnt, besides the patent fact that, whatever age Aimée Renshaw is, she still sees herself as some sort of man-eater, man-devourer?
*
But, on her way to see if the search teams had now had some success, either in the house or out of it, Harriet almost bumped into a tall, milk-fed young woman in a boldly yellow summer dress, massed very blonde hair held in a tight chignon that contrived to highlight a pale pink, bow-shaped mouth and wide blue eyes. Fiona Diplock, she thought, recovering. Must be.
She had been coming out of a room next to the one where, earlier, Peter Renshaw had been sitting, slumped forward in his chair.
‘You must be Miss Diplock. The very person I want to see.’
‘And you’re the woman in charge of finding out who — who killed Bubbles. The famous Hard Detective.’
‘Well, never mind about that. Hard or not, you’re right that it’s my business now to track down that murderer.’
‘Or murderess.’
What had made her say that? Is she some mad-nut feminist, anxious to claim anything for our sex, even murder? Or is it just that she seizes on any chance to assert her superiority?
We’ll see.
‘Right, can we go back into this room? What is it? Your office?’
‘My office.’
Fiona Diplock preceded her into the ro
om, something of a stately yellow-vibrant swan. It looked office-like enough, computer screen glowing, long wall-to-wall desk-top covered with print-outs and rolled-up faxes, two differently coloured phones, tall executive chair in black leather. On one wall there was a chart for Wimbledon with the Bubbles Xingara name highlighted. Now to no purpose, Harriet thought with a pang of sharp regret.
‘Tell me,’ she said, as Fiona pointed firmly to the room’s second chair, ‘why did you say just now that your friend’s murder might be the work of a woman?’
Up-tilted chin.
‘Well, it could be, couldn’t it? Women are just as capable of killing people as men. I should have thought you’d know that.’
Yes. Determination to be the one in charge.
‘Well, as a police officer I’m frankly more inclined to believe I’m looking at present for some sex-dominated male stalker.’
See if I can let her believe we’ve no interest in anyone in the household.
‘There are women stalkers, you know.’
‘Yes, I do know. But at this moment I’m here to find out what I can of the circumstances of Miss Xingara’s death. And, if there’s anyone in the house who can help me, it’s you.’
For a moment, a fraction of a second, it looked as if Fiona Diplock was going to contest that. But she took a deep breath — Harriet watched the rise and fall of her full breasts under the bold yellow linen dress — and changed tack.
‘Very well, if I can help in any way, I shall be only too glad.’
A little cold, that response? Another assertion of superiority? Or were the two girls not as friendly as might be expected? And how deep had that gone? We’ll see.
‘Right, first of all, I’d like to know if by any chance you were up at round about six this morning. Looking out, did you see anyone strange?’
‘I wasn’t.’
‘No? You’re certain? You weren’t up spending a penny or anything? You might have forgotten that for the moment. Did you glance out, without thinking, and see something you haven’t remembered till now? What room do you have? Does it look out towards the river? You might have just glimpsed the murderer.’
A Detective in Love Page 4
