'On the q.t.?'
You could put it that way, I suppose. A number of our guests are scared of using the National Health Service.'
'What if they need hospital treatment?'
'Then they go to a private clinic, and we negotiate a fee. Listen, what I'm telling you mustn't go beyond these four walls. It's all done from the very best motives.'
'We'll take your word for that. Have you found the chequebook?'
Mrs Courtney-Andrews pulled open the bottom drawer. 'Here we are. Account books, bills, chequebook.' She lifted them out.
Hen took them to a desk and opened the main account book. It had been kept in a neat, small hand, each decimal point precisely positioned, the last entry eleven days ago. Tidy bookkeeping didn't automatically mean everything was in order, but Hen didn't have the training or the time to look for anything irregular in these figures. Still, she was glad she'd asked to examine them. Just seeing the neatness of the entries brought her closer to Amelia Snow. She reached for the chequebook and examined the stubs. Each one was fully completed, right down to the current balance, and that told her that the account was over two thousand pounds in credit.
She returned the books to the filing cabinet. 'Did Miss Snow ever speak about the writers' circle?'
'Was she a writer?' Mrs Courtney-Andrews said with interest. 'Well, you learn something every day. No, I had no idea. She never spoke of it. What kind of writer?'
'She was doing a book about the Snows, famous people who shared the same surname.'
'Fancy that,' she said in a tone that said she didn't fancy it one bit as a good read.
'I want to ask you about the charity shop, and how it works. You must have a schedule of helpers to run it. Is that organised from here?'
'No, it's all done at the shop. They do shifts of half a day each, usually two volunteers together. When there's a problem through illness or something we can send someone from here. Some of our guests have enough English to help out, and they enjoy it.'
'So Miss Snow didn't mind working with asylum seekers?'
'Why should she?'
'I didn't meet her,' Hen said, 'but you were suggesting she was rather a private person.'
'True, but she had a heart of gold. I know for a fact that she'd often invite them back to her house for supper before they returned here.'
Hen couldn't hold back any longer. That 'heart of gold' remark got to her. 'You people mean well, I'm sure, but do you have any idea of what you're encouraging? You talk about asylum seekers arriving in containers. Who put them there? Human traffickers, some of the nastiest criminals anywhere. Word gets around that there's a place like this where illegal immigrants can be quietly absorbed into the system. Organised crime gets to know about it and before you know where you are, you're being used by vicious, callous crooks who'd snuff you out as coolly as they kill anyone who threatens their operation. I'm sorry, I didn't come here with the object of closing you down, but I'm going to have to report what I've seen this morning.'
On the drive back, she was silent most of the way apart from a sigh or a shake of her head. Alert to her mood, Shilling said nothing until they drove into the police station car park. Hen already had an unlit cigar between her lips.
'Are you thinking Miss Snow was killed by a trafficker, guv?'
'No,' she said. 'I'm not' The cigar jiggled as she spoke.
'An illegal?'
'No.'
'One of the volunteers?'
'Good Lord, no.' She had the lighter in her hand.
'Are we back to the circle, then?'
She lit the cigar and smiled. 'We're back to the circle.'
Bob Naylor was waiting in the East Street office of Steadfast Assurance. He'd just delivered six boxes of stationery sent down from their London head office, and he was supposed to pick up a parcel that wasn't ready.
'I'm sorry, Bob,' the receptionist said. She'd been in the job for years, and she knew him well. 'It's been one of those days.'
'How long will you be, love?' he asked. 'I'm up on the pavement in Little London. If a warden comes by, I'm shafted.'
She said, 'I thought you were sitting on the edge of my desk.'
'Ooh, we're sharp this afternoon.'
'It's Mr Hackenschmidt, my branch manager,' she said. 'He promised he'd have a package ready for collection. It's important, he says.'
'Hackenschmidt — is he new? I thought it was Mr Burnley who ran this place.'
'Not since last July. He retired.'
'Lucky man. And before that' — Bob started fishing — 'the Welsh guy, Tudor.'
'Tudor? He was never manager. He's just one of the agents.'
'I thought he was the chief honcho.'
She laughed. 'He acts like he is.'
'Doesn't he bring in most of the business, then?'
'You're joking.'
'He was telling me about some policy he sold to Edgar Blacker, the man who was killed in that fire at the cottage along the Selsey Road. Seemed to think it was a big deal.'
'That was four or five years ago,' she said. 'Anyway, it led to a hefty claim. Mr Blacker did very nicely out of it.'
'A fire?'
'No, a manuscript that was stolen from him. We'd insured it for a five-figure sum, over twenty grand, I think.'
'Must have been special.'
'It was a public school story by the writer of those Jeeves stories, about the butler. Do you remember his name?'
'It's on the tip of my tongue,' Bob said. 'How did Blacker come by a script like that?'
'He worked in publishing, didn't he? I suppose he found it in a file and took it home. If I remember right, it was unpublished.'
'And Tudor insured it?'
'Yes, after we'd had it authenticated by two experts. Inside a year it was stolen from Blacker's house.'
'Did your lot pay in full?'
'We had to.'
'Sounds like a scam to me.'
'Hard to prove. The manuscript hasn't been heard of since. Probably in New York or Tokyo by now. Blacker banked the cheque and started his publishing business.'
'Do you think Tudor was in on this?' Bob asked.
'Hard to say. If the bosses thought so, he'd have been sacked, so I guess he's innocent.'
The buzzer on her intercom went. She opened the door of her boss's office and presently returned with the package Bob was to take.
'Be seeing you, then,' he said when the paperwork was done.
'What made you ask about Blacker?' she said.
'Just interest.'
'Funny.'
'What's funny?'
'Just that I had someone else in here this morning. Said she was from the solicitors dealing with Mr Blacker's estate. She'd heard about the claim and wanted some more details, for probate reasons, she said. I told her what I've told you. That's why it's so fresh in my mind.'
'What was she like, this solicitor?'
'Scary, actually. Right in your face. Jet black hair and piercing eyes.'
Maurice McDade was released at four that afternoon and met by Thomasine and Dagmar, who drove him back to Lavant. His wife Fran was waiting at the open door and invited them in for a celebration drink.
'You two want to be alone,' Dagmar said.'I think we'll leave you to it.'
'Just the one, then,' Thomasine said, and got a look from Dagmar.
Fran had baked a banana cake that Maurice said was his favourite, and they drank champagne in front of the Swiss mountains in the time-locked living room.
'This has all been so unfair,' Dagmar said.
'Yes, but I don't want to dwell on it,' Maurice said. 'I appreciate Fran and my home even more now.'
'We missed you,' Dagmar said. 'We tried to have a circle meeting and it wasn't the same. No disrespect, Thomasine. You did your best'
'We'll soon get back to normal,' he said. 'It's important that we do.'
'We've been invited to a meeting tomorrow evening,' Thomasine said, 'but that's not a proper meeting, just a chance for that ne
w Inspector Mallin to quiz us all.'
'It's thanks to her that I'm out,' Maurice said. 'I hope she clears up this mystery soon. I had plenty of time to think when I was inside. Until this experience I never fully appreciated what pain an unsolved crime can bring. I've written about all those cases as if there was some kind of glamour to them, the ongoing mystery of who did it. Now I know how important it is to get closure.'
'Closure with the right person arrested,' Thomasine said. 'There's another book to be written about all the poor sods who've been locked away for crimes they didn't commit.'
'True, but I've got faith in Chief Inspector Mallin.'
'You're very trusting. Saintly is the word that springs to mind.'
'And I don't think you should have another glass,' Dagmar said to Thomasine.
18
People who write fiction, if they had not taken it up, might have become very successful liars.
Ernest Hemingway, interviewed in This Week (1959)
In the dark-blue minibus carrying members of the circle from the New Park Centre to the police station, Anton was saying, 'I'm so grateful my old colleagues in the civil service can't see me now.'
'You want to try riding in a prison van,' Zach said.
'No thank you.' After a moment's further thought Anton spoke again. 'When were you in prison?'
'I wasn't. I was conditionally discharged.'
'What was the offence?'
'Disorderly behaviour.'
'Where?'
'In Storrington.'
'Storrington? That's no place to misbehave.'
'I didn't. I was protesting. The hunt came through there.'
'Ha — a saboteur. I should have guessed.'
Jessie Warmington-Smith said, 'Well, I'm dying of shame. I've never broken the law.'
Zach said, 'It's only a people-carrier, for fuck's sake.'
Jessie made a sharp sound, sucking in air through her teeth.
Anton said in a low voice to Dagmar, who was sitting beside him, 'You might think Zach is the only calm one among us, but take a look at his hands. He's got the shakes, poor fellow. I wonder what causes that.'
Tudor said, 'Keep your head down, Jessie. Isn't that the bishop looking over that wall?'
'Tudor. Enough!' Thomasine said in the voice she used to subdue the third years.
They were driven around Basin Road and into the forecourt of the police station where the CID officers were waiting, among them Hen Mallin, who had gone ahead in her own car. She'd met everyone at the New Park Centre and explained how the interviews would be organised. She'd made a powerful impact, courteous, but firm. No one had complained until she'd gone and they were all in the minibus.
Good shepherd that he was to his fellow writers, Maurice McDade had turned up and was there to help the older ones step down from the minibus. This thoughtfulness was typical of the man. The police hadn't asked him to come. There was no intention to interview him again.
In Interview Room One, Anton seemed to have decided to treat this as a civil service interview, presenting a confident posture, back straight, chin up and legs crossed at the ankles, hands (after checking his bow tie) clasped lightly one over the other, resting on his left thigh.
He needed to be alert. He was facing Hen Mallin, the senior investigating officer.
'Mr Gulliver, you joined the writers' circle soon after its formation, I understand,' she said with the gentle opener he expected.
'That's correct.'
'Yet by all accounts you don't contribute much in the way of writing. What do you get out of it?'
'The cut and thrust of the meetings. I'm well to the fore in the discussions.'
'Wouldn't a debating society be a better club for you?'
'Excellent suggestion,' he said, flattering his interviewer, a classic technique. 'Unfortunately I don't know of one this side of Portsmouth.'
'So you're content to be an observer rather than an active member.'
'In which sense?'
'If you don't write anything. .'
'Oh, that doesn't matter a jot. Most of what is written isn't fit to be read out. I contribute by offering suggestions and praise where it's due, which it seldom is.' He gave a knowing smile to the silent constable seated next to Hen.
'But you had nothing to submit to Mr Blacker when he visited the circle.'
'That is correct.' Anton smiled.'Ican see where you're coming from now. Unlike most of the others, I wasn't held up to the light and judged. I had no reason to set Mr Blacker's house on fire.'
'Let's not race ahead here,' Hen said. 'It doesn't follow that you had no reason, just that you didn't have the same reason as some of the others. You could have set light to his place because you owed him money or he once insulted your mother.'
'Neither of which is true.'
'Or you have a pathological hatred of thatched cottages.'
'What makes you say that?'
'It's just an example. You care about architecture. You worked in the Department of Ancient Monuments, I gather.'
'That is about the first true thing you've said.'
'We're on course, then. I can look forward to some straight answers. Do cutesy old cottages upset you?'
'Not in the least, as it happens.'
'Did you know Mr Blacker prior to his visit?'
'Certainly not.'
'Your paths had never crossed?'
'To save you time, chief inspector, I am absolutely neutral about the late Mr Blacker. I neither liked the man, nor disliked him.'
'Where were you on the night he was killed?'
'That's some time back.'
'But you must have thought about where you were in case someone like me asked you to account for your movements.'
'True. I was at home.'
'All night?'
'Yes, and I can prove it. My sleeping pattern is somewhat erratic, so I was working on my computer until daylight. Then I went to bed for a couple of hours. I have a dedicated phone line and I can show you my statement.'
'I'm afraid all it shows is when your computer was online,' Hen said. 'It can't tell us if you were sitting in front of it. What do you do on the computer?'
'Sometimes I'm surfing the internet. Sometimes I'm making virtual models.'
'Models of what?'
'Buildings mainly.'
'Ancient monuments?'
'And modern.'
'Real buildings?'
'Yes.' He leaned towards her and took a less defensive pose with his elbows on the table and hands linked, the two forefingers touching his chin. 'It's a project with huge potential. I should think you would find it a godsend. I'm building up a street by street reference to central Chichester. If, for example, you had a report of a shoplifting incident in Woolworths, you could pinpoint North Street and get a picture of the shop on the screen and then actually go inside.'
'We'd want a picture of the shoplifter.'
'You're asking the impossible.'
'No. CCTV does it nicely,' Hen said. 'But I'm sure you get hours of pleasure. Let's turn to the matter of Miss Snow's death. You knew her quite well.'
'She was our secretary and treasurer.'
'Were you on good terms with her? I got the impression there was some tension between you.'
'Nothing serious,' he said. 'She didn't like her mistakes in the minutes being discussed.'
'It's a thankless task, writing up minutes,' Hen said. 'I've done it in my time. The chairman asks if there are any corrections and it's open house for everyone who wants to hear the sound of his own voice. No disrespect, Mr Gulliver, but that's how it seems from the secretary's end.'
'And it's the secretary's end that you're investigating.'
Hen gave him the smile he seemed to expect for this piece of wit.
He said, 'But we were talking about the minutes and I say mistakes shouldn't be ignored.'
'Certain mistakes can. I'd say a lot can, and meetings would be shorter as a result. I can understand why Miss Snow would feel
the criticism was directed at her.'
'We were always on civil terms.'
'I believe you. I'd have heard if you weren't. People are quick to point the finger, and they haven't. From all I hear, she was an inoffensive lady.'
'I agree with that.'
'Did you ever visit her house in Tower Street?'
'No.'
'I expect it's on your computer.'
'The exterior is. I don't put the interiors of private houses into my system.'
'That would be taking a liberty,' Hen said.
'That's why.'
'And did you have any professional dealings with her in her work as an accountant?'
'No. I told you, I was a civil servant.'
'Now retired?'
'Yes.'
'Presumably you still do a tax return. I was wondering if you got help with that.'
'I do my own. There's a simple computer programme.' He altered his posture again, sitting back with his arms folded, but he was well defended. He was enjoying the exchanges.
'Do you have any view who might have killed this inoffensive lady?' Hen asked.
He smiled and shook his head. 'You said people are quick to point the finger. Not in my case.'
Andy Humphreys, the detective constable who'd got off to such a bad start with Hen Mallin, was in Interview Room Two, stuck with an old bird called Warmington-Smith who had once been married to an archdeacon. She seemed convinced she was about to get the third degree, even though a female officer was present and doing her best to calm things down. It had taken a cup of hot, sweet tea and a biscuit and all of the Humphreys charm to induce the old dear to talk at all.
'Ever since it was formed,' she was saying in a stiff voice. 'I was one of the first members to join, at the personal invitation of the chair.'
'The chairman. Maurice McDade, right — the guy we had in custody?'
'The chair. We refer to him as the chair.'
'No problem. So you joined this writers' club in Chichester. That's a bit whacky, isn't it, a club for writers?'
She shifted her head to one side like a cockatoo. 'Whacky?'
'Weird, then.'
'Not at all. Writing is a solitary occupation.'
You took the words out of my mouth,' DC Humphreys said.
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