Reid leaned forward. “Did he say what was on his mind?”
“There was no need. Students always want to talk about their work.”
“He said that? Or you assumed it?”
“I see what you mean.” Parry paused, thinking. “You’re right, Inspector, I assumed it. But what else could it have been?”
“If we knew that, it might give us a lead.”
“Well, he didn’t turn up, and I didn’t worry. He was such a bighead, so full of himself, I was surprised he asked me at all. It’s part of my job, of course. But I wonder...students do change their minds and panic when it cones down to the nitty-gritty of a personal crit.”
“I wonder too,” Reid said dryly. “Mrs. Courtney said you’d asked her to do something about Bullard. Mr. Courtney apparently keeps a low profile. Any comments?”
Parry’s blue eyes opened wide.
“You suspect me, Inspector. Yes, you do, it’s no good denying it! That’s wonderful. I can see all that lovely publicity...accused has West End show...it’ll double the price of my pictures!”
“All right, that’ll do. I may want to talk to you later, Mr. Parry. I’ll see the girl, Snow, next—ask her to come in, will you?”
As the door closed after Keith Parry, Reid looked at Trewin. The constable probably had never had to deal with that sort before.
“Queer, would you say?”
Trewin shrugged. “Not necessarily. The artistic type.”
“If he is queer, and Bullard needled him...well, they blow up, don’t they?”
“It’s a possibility.”
Reid nodded. “A distinct possibility. Later on, take a stroll down to the village. See what the locals have to say.”
* * * *
Miss Eaton moved a chair into the hall and sat opposite the door of the interview room. Sherry jumped onto her lap and settled down, purring happily as Miss Eaton stroked her silky coat.
Together, they watched the faces of the suspects as they were called. Their expressions changed between going in and coming out.
On the way in they were mostly apprehensive. Probably none of them had been interviewed before by the police on a serious matter.
Hilda Keller came out smiling and there was almost a spring in her step.
Sammy Jacobi went directly to the payphone and made a call. Long distance, Miss Eaton judged, as he waited to get through. He seemed nervous. Worried? She wondered if he were calling his solicitor.
Fletcher, the Australian, looked thoughtful as if he were meditating on the fact that it was his killing stick that had been used.
Val’s face was pale and strained and she came straight to Miss Eaton and said, “I’m sure the Inspector believes that I murdered Bullard. He was asking why I invited you here. What should I do, Belle?”
“Relax,” Miss Eaton advised. “I’m not worried, and I’m just as sure you didn’t murder anyone.”
Reggie looked gloomier than before as he joined Val and they went off together.
Keith Parry wore an expression of triumph, as if he’d done battle and come out the victor.
Then Linda went in.
CHAPTER SEVEN
WHICH ONE?
Detective Comstable Frank Trewin watched Reid from the corner of his eye. The big man in the shiny blue suit had already sabotaged his image of a Scotland Yard man. And being called ‘constable’ all the time irritated him.
Of course, the London man was showing the local boy how to run a murder enquiry...well, he wouldn’t be in charge for ever. Reid was close to retirement age.
When Linda Snow made her entrance, Trewin took his gaze away from the Inspector.
The blonde girl paused in the doorway of the interview room, looking from one man to the other. She made a tentative smile. She stood in profile, wearing a thin teeshirt, and took a deep breath.
Trewin enjoyed the view. She was about twenty, he guessed, and knew what she was doing. She was trying it on.
“Please sit down, Miss Snow,” Reid said in a hearty manner.
She closed the door, sauntered into the room and sat opposite the Inspector. She darted a sideways glance at Trewin.
“I don’t suppose you liked Bullard any more than the others,” Reid said.
Linda’s eyes flashed,
“He was a dirty old man!” Her tone registered indignation. “Asking me to pose in the nude, at his age. Of course I wouldn’t. I’m really shy.”
“I’m sure,” Reid said dryly. “Last night. Did you see him at any time?”
“Last night I was out with Duke, my boyfriend. We went to a roadhouse—I don’t know the name—it’s on the way to Penzance.”
“And after that?”
“After that?” Linda looked down demurely. “I was with Duke.”
“So Bullard didn’t worry you much?”
“What d’you think? I’ve been asked to take my clothes off before.”
“Quite likely. Your boyfriend now, is he the jealous type?” Reid’s voice was deceptively casual.
Linda smiled with satisfaction. “I can make Duke jealous any time I want...he hit George.”
“We’ll see what he has to say about that himself. All right, Miss Snow, you can go.”
Trewin watched her leave the room, and eased his collar. “A sexy piece,” he commented.
“Yes, and she likes to make her boyfriend jealous. Suppose she encouraged Bullard to go too far, and Duke blew up?”
“It’s possible, I suppose,” Trewin admitted grudgingly. “The boyfriend next?”
“I’ll save him up. Mr. Keller interests me.”
Wilfred Keller walked briskly into the room and sat down. He was neatly dressed in quality clothes and looked a bit of a dandy.
“D’you mind if I smoke, Inspector?” he asked.
“I don’t mind,” Reid said, and waited while he opened a packet of ten cigarettes and lit up from a box of matches.
Trewin wondered about that; a case and lighter in solid gold with a monogram would have seemed more in character.
Reid allowed the silence to linger after he had noted down the Kellers’ London address.
“Well now, it appears that your good wife found Bullard’s corpse. She claims she was looking for you at the time, which was early this morning. So where were you?”
Keller stared at the glowing end of his cigarette.
“I don’t doubt it’s true, Inspector. She makes a habit of keeping an eye on me.” He smiled vaguely. “As it happens, I woke early. I do sometimes in a strange bed. Hilda was still snoring and it seemed a chance to get some sketching done on my own—without an overseer, so to speak.”
He paused to blow a careful smoke-ring.
“I like joining these holiday groups. One gets different tutors, each with his or her own ideas, and sees different kinds of work—most of it not very good, I’m afraid, but still interesting. And, of course a particular view can look different in another light. An early morning light, you know.”
“I don’t know,” Reid said mildly. “So where was this particular view? Up here, at the studio?”
“No!” Keller blurted out the single word. The cigarette trembled in his hand. “Along the shore.”
“Did you see anyone?”
“I didn’t notice.”
“You’d notice young Linda though.”
“Linda?” Keller seemed astonished by the idea.
Reid tried another line of questioning. “Mr. Parry said you’ve met before.”
“Yes. On a course in—Warwickshire, I think it was. We—my wife and I—attend so many courses through the summer.”
“That’ll do for this time,” Reid said. “But I may want to see you again.”
Wilfred Keller carefully stubbed out his half-smoked cigarette before he left the room.
Reid said, “Something there. He’s covering up.”
Trewin completed his shorthand notes and suggested, “Another woman? I mean, his wife has money, but....”
“But not
hing,” Reid grunted. “Find out. I’ll see—what’s her name? Nicholas.”
I’ll do all the routine chores, Trewin thought, and he’ll grab the credit.
Margo Nicholas swept into the room on a wave of perfume, a one-woman tornado in gypsy finery.
“You’ll get nothing out of me, Inspector! Whoever killed George Bullard has my full support and approval. He was a nasty man, a trouble-maker of the worst kind. I’m not surprised that someone killed him—only that it didn’t happen long ago.”
“Please sit down,” Reid said, and waited. “You’re entitled to your opinion but, so far as the police are concerned this is an official murder enquiry, and I am duty bound to ask you certain questions.”
“Hardly murder, Inspector. Manslaughter, possibly. Obviously someone lost his temper and hit out. You could call it an accident—even suicide. He certainly asked for it.”
Margo drew a long breath.
“Even if I knew anything, which I don’t, I wouldn’t tell you. And I hope and believe, neither will anyone else. We’re all glad he’s dead, so there!”
“The weapon was locked in Mr. Fletcher’s car,” Reid said. “So it can hardly have been someone losing his temper and hitting out, as you suggest. His murder was premeditated.”
His voice hardened. “And I believe you’re a practising psychic. Perhaps you’ll go into a trance and ask the spirits to name the murderer for me?”
“Never!”
“I remember your name. There was an. enquiry into a death, wasn’t there?”
Margo came out of the chair, spitting. She didn’t bother to reply, but swept majestically out of the room.
Trewin whistled. “Bit of a spitfire, that one. An act, do you think, sir? And what was that about a death?”
“We’ll dig till we find out,” Reid promised. “She gave a bad reading and her client committed suicide. We’ll give her some rope—and then put the pressure on. Let’s have Dickson in.”
Trewin watched ‘Duke’ Dickson come through the doorway: the effect was halfway between a swagger and a slouch. He wore a leather jacket and oil-stained jeans, his mop of dark hair uncombed.
A tearaway, the constable thought, a yob—and wondered what Linda saw in him.
“Sit down, Dickson,” Reid snapped. “I’ve been told that Bullard annoyed your girlfriend and you hit him. Have I got the facts right? Is there anything you want to add?”
“Yeah, he invaded our bedroom too. So I hit him—I don’t let anybody mess around with Linda.”
“So perhaps you had another go and hit him too hard?”
“There’s no way you’re going to pin a murder rap on me. I was never with the boomerang crowd. I like a lay-in when I’m on holiday—so I didn’t know anything about that killing stick.”
“Your girlfriend could have told you.”
“But she didn’t.”
“We’ll see. I want you to account for your time last evening and night.”
“I took Linda on my bike to a roadhouse. You can check that.”
“We will,” Reid said flatly. “What time did you leave there?”
“Just before they closed—a bit after eleven, I suppose.”
“On a bike, twenty minutes. That places you here at eleven-thirty—around the time Bullard was murdered.”
“So what? I was with Linda. We came back together and we stayed together. We spent the night together. Try to break that alibi.”
“I don’t believe a jury would go a lot on it. Obviously your girlfriend will give you an alibi—we can discount that. Did anyone see you come in? Did you see Bullard?”
“I didn’t see anyone. They’d all gone to bed as far as I know. It was dark, with just a light in the hall.”
“But you’re insanely jealous about your girl, right?”
Duke took out a knife and began to clean his fingernails. “You’re wasting your time, pig. I didn’t kill him.”
Trewin lowered his notepad and half-rose from his seat. “You’ll address the Inspector politely.”
Reid waved him back. “This laddie doesn’t worry me. I’ve met his type before. Did you hear anything, Dickson?”
“Nothing. This place was as quiet as a morgue.”
Reid studied him in silence. “All right, you can go—for now.”
“Snotty kid,” Trewin said. “He needs teaching a lesson.”
“A waste of time, constable. There are too many like that in London, these days—you get used to them. Now suppose Duke and the girl were in it together—”
“I don’t fancy Linda as a killer, sir.”
“I don’t suppose you do. But don’t let a pretty face turn your head.” Reid mused for a while. “This Bullard seems to have been an obnoxious person altogether.”
“A right bastard,” Trewin said.
“Same difference.”
Reid ticked off Dickson on his list.
“Staff next. There’s only one who lives in—the cook. A couple of part-timers to help out. I’ll see the cook. You can take care of the part-timers. I doubt they’ll know much, if anything, but no stone unturned....”
Of course, Trewin thought, the man in charge can’t waste his highly-paid time on dull routine.
Mrs. Joyce Willis bustled in and poised on the edge of the chair. She was plump with rosy cheeks, and said: “I hope this won’t take long—I’ve the lunch to see to.”
“No time at all. As you live in, this is just a formality. We have to question everyone on the premises. It’s last night we’re interested in—say, from eleven o’clock to after midnight. Did you see anything unusual? Or hear anything out of the ordinary?”
The cook regarded him with scorn.
“Of course not. I’m up early to cook breakfast, so I’m in bed by ten and sleep like a log.”
“George Bullard. Did you ever meet him?”
“Oh, aye, I met him.” For a moment, Trewin thought she was going to spit on the floor. “We’re told not to speak ill of the dead, but that one...he’d come into my kitchen and complain about my food. He upset Mrs. Val too. A horrible man.”
“Yes, well...everybody seems agreed on that. All right, Mrs. Willis, I don’t think I need keep you from your kitchen any longer.”
“That’s the lot,” Trewin said. “One of ’em must have done it—but which one?”
Reid shook his head and looked sadly at him. “There’s still one more. I want to see that private detective, so-called.”
“But she wasn’t even here.”
“You know that to be a fact, do you, constable? Eaton was called in to get rid of Bullard...so perhaps she did!”
* * * *
Miss Eaton stroked Sherry as she watched the suspects come out of the interview room. Most likely it was one of them, but which one?
The young blonde girl looked pleased with herself as she crossed the hall and went out into the sunshine.
Wilfred Keller looked apprehensive as he joined his wife. Something to hide? Miss Eaton wondered. From his wife? Or from the police?
Margo Nicholas was the most interesting. She swept out with high colour, as magnificent as any prima donna leaving the stage.
Duke was making an effort to appear calm, but something in his manner suggested unease.
The cook hurried along the passage towards the kitchen, her lips pressed into a thin line.
Then the red-haired detective opened the door and beckoned to her. Miss Eaton placed Sherry carefully on the chair and went into the interview room. She seated herself with quiet confidence, handbag on her lap and smiled at the inspector.
“This is exciting,” she said conversationally. “I’m not usually called to a murder.”
“Quite,” Reid murmured. “More likely divorce, I imagine.”
“Oh, no. You’re rather out of date, Inspector. Divorce is so easy these days that private detectives are rarely involved.”
“Mrs. Courtney wanted you to get rid of Bullard, so—where were you last night?”
Miss Eaton
opened her handbag and offered a receipt. “The Combe Tor Hotel.”
“We can check that, you know.”
“Of course, Inspector.”
“What did you plan to do when you got here?”
“There are ways of dealing with awkward customers,” Miss Eaton said pleasantly. She tapped her handbag and switched to her Sam Pike accent.
“A rod can be a great little persuader. Or a beating-up—I’m great at unarmed combat. Some people can be bought off. Or threaten to dig up their past—it’s sure amazing how people always have something to hide. I guess it all depends how I sum up a person after meeting them. I like to keep my options open till then. There are ways—even threatening to bring in the law can work sometimes.”
“I wonder why Mrs. Courtney didn’t do that?”
“In business, Inspector, people don’t like the cops around. It upsets the clients.”
“Too late to mind now,” Reid said. “You can go—and keep out of my way.”
Miss Eaton rose smoothly and went out of the room, closing the door after her.
Trewin whistled. “‘I’m great at unarmed combat’... I’d like to see her in action...and that accent! I’d better check up on her, I suppose.”
“Check on everybody,” Reid said, filling his pipe with a contented air. “And take an extra long look at the person who found the body. That may not seem fair to you, constable, but it pays, it pays.”
He lit his pipe and drew on it.
“We’ll let them relax for a bit, then—”
He made a chopping motion with his hand.
CHAPTER EIGHT
LOCAL NEWSHOUND
Miss Eaton sat with Val upstairs in the Courtney’s private sitting room. It was a large room, furnished with quality antiques; the table was highly polished with a bowl of roses as the centrepiece. Two pictures pf the Cornish coast hung on the walls and a hi-fi played softly in the background.
Miss Eaton relaxed with a glass of sherry. The room smelt of roses and polish and had a homely, lived-in feel to it. The Blue Persian lapped contentedly from a saucer. Val was on her second glass.
Val Courtney looked harassed.
“Please don’t even think of returning to London tomorrow,” she said. “When I hired you to take Bullard off my hands, I never dreamed anything like this would happen. It’s a nightmare. Business will fall away and we’ll be ruined.”
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