Boulter grunted. “Just for the sheer joy of possession. Small wonder she couldn’t resist pinching Belle Latimer’s emerald ring. And a few other goodies, most likely.”
“But does Ted know that his wife has a touch of the klepto? And even if he does, how would he have reacted to Belle’s accusation of theft? Could he have been so blinded with rage that he decided to kill her? I can’t really see it.”
“Slim motive for murder,” Boulter agreed.
“Running Belle down in the heat of anger is just about believable, but a carefully pre-planned murder ... no, I wouldn’t care to risk my money on it. Still, we can’t have any loose ends. Try another little friendly chat with Linda and see if you can break her story that Ted came back from the stables just after nine-thirty and stayed in for the rest of the evening.”
“Will do.”
Kate turned to the next report. “Ah yes, those friends the Latimers were having a drink with at the pub two days before Belle was killed. Major and Mrs. Carstairs.”
“A right snooty pair, those two. They shed a few crocodile tears about her death, but I think they’re laughing, really.”
“What do you read into that, Tim? Anything sinister?”
“My guess is not, but who can tell? I haven’t had a chance to write it up yet, but I dropped in at the Wagon and Horses just now and had a chat with Debra, one of the barmaids. She said the Latimers and Carstairses often met up there Sunday lunch-times, and she reckons those two women have always hated each other’s guts. But last Sunday you could have split the atmosphere down the middle.”
“Did Debra have any idea why?”
He shrugged. “She just reckons that all these rich bitches are the same. Smiles and ‘darlings’ scattered like confetti, and ready to slide the knife in any chance they get.”
“Like that, was it? What do the Carstairses claim to have been doing on the evening Belle Latimer was killed?”
Boulter pointed to the relevant section of his report. “They said their neighbours dropped in to discuss lopping some trees on their boundary, and stayed for drinks. But Major and Mrs. Carstairs were a bit vague about what time they left.”
“Well, make sure it’s followed through. Now, I think it’s time I tackled George Prescott again and established what sort of alibi he’s got. The way things are looking, Prescott’s the one with the strongest motive. If Belle Latimer could have exposed him for financial juggling, it would have ruined him as a professional accountant.”
“Do you want me along?”
“No, I’ll handle Prescott on my own.” Kate turned another page, and flinched at the lengthy, closely typed document confronting her. It was the report on the search of Belle Latimer’s desk and files. She was about to lay it aside for closer scrutiny later when the name Samuel Wilkes caught her eye.
“The alleged land swindle,” she mused aloud. “Where’s the other swindle Sam talked about—the widow-woman? Ah, here it is, Mrs. Kathleen Axfield. Sixty-seven acres known as Bramble Farm. There was only five months between the two sales, yet Belle’s father paid her a lot more per acre than he paid poor old Sam. Could her land have been worth so much more than his?”
“Happen he was paying for considerations other than just the land.”
“Meaning?” demanded Kate tightly.
“Maybe she was a very attractive widow.”
“Oh for God’s sake, you men make me sick.”
But even that contemptuous slap-down didn’t wipe the smirk off Boulter’s face.
* * * *
Kate dropped in on Prescott at his office unannounced, wanting to catch him off guard. He wasn’t pleased to see her, but he managed to put on a display of courtesy, his previous fury hidden if not gone. As he went through the ritual of inviting her to sit down and offering coffee, she could see that he was wary of her, watchful. That he was a man with something to hide, Kate hadn’t a doubt, and one way or another she intended to discover what that something was. A ruthless, deliberate hit-and-run? Or just some shabby secret involving dishonesty or sex? That word shabby again. It fitted George Prescott, she thought.
“No coffee, thank you,” she said. “I’m trying to establish where everybody in any way connected with Mrs. Latimer happened to be on the evening of her death. It’s a matter of clarification, you understand? So if you could cast your mind back to last Tuesday evening ...”
Kate achieved eyeball-to-eyeball confrontation for only a moment before Prescott turned away. She had a feeling, though, that he was eager to talk but was holding himself back to avoid seeming
too
eager.
“Tuesday ... let me see, now.” He flickered a look at his desk diary as if for assistance. “That must have been the evening I popped over to see my sister Joan. I visit her as often as I can. The poor dear is all alone in the world, you see, except for me.”
“Where does your sister live, Mr. Prescott?”
“Joan has a cottage at Peterscombe. Do you know the village, it’s about five miles from here? She bought the little place when she retired three or four years ago.”
“And on the evening in question you arrived there at what time?”
“Well now.” He held his chin in a pondering pose. “Let me think ... it would have been about seven-thirty. No ... just a minute, I remember hearing the seven o’clock pips on the car radio as I drew up outside.”
“And you remained with your sister until when?”
“About eleven, I’d say. Or just before. I was back home at a quarter past, I remember.”
“Your sister can confirm this, I take it?”
Remembering Prescott’s outburst on her previous visit, Kate expected him to put on a show of resentment that his word would be checked up on. But he just said, with even a look of mild triumph on his face, “If you feel it necessary to ask her, Chief Inspector, I’m sure that Joan will confirm every word I’ve told you.”
You can bet on it, Kate!
“May I have your sister’s address, please?”
“It’s a cottage called Meadow View. A few yards past the church in Peterscombe.”
Kate stood up. “I needn’t trouble you any further for the moment, Mr. Prescott. I may be in touch again, but meantime thank you for your help.”
He was obviously thankful that it had all been so painless. “You’re welcome, Chief Inspector. I fully understand that you have your job to do.”
Kate had noted the ashtray on his desk. Solid silver, it looked. So he was a good customer for the bookie. A good customer who’d lately got in too deep, way over his head? She’d have to get that angle sorted.
* * * *
Kate headed her car for Peterscombe, pausing en route for a quick sandwich at a pub called the Half Moon. At the address Prescott had given her, she held out her warrant card and introduced herself to the woman who came to the door. Miss Prescott didn’t react with alarm that a detective chief inspector should be calling on her, nor with surprise that the DCI should be a woman. Well primed, obviously, by Brother George. But that didn’t stop her being as nervous as hell. Her whole body was tense, and a muscle beneath her eye was twitching.
“Do come in, Chief Inspector.” She was almost eager.
Kate glanced around admiringly, holding back from the big question. “What a wonderful collection of brass you have. And you keep it all so beautifully polished.”
“Yes, I love brass,” Joan Prescott confided. “I’ve been collecting it all my life.”
“This lot must be quite valuable.”
“Well ... I don’t know about that. But it’s very precious to me.”
“Then you ought to have adequate security. I notice that you haven’t locks on your windows, so it wouldn’t be difficult for a thief to break in.” Kate smiled pleasantly. “Would you like me to ask the Crime Prevention officer to call and advise you?”
Miss Prescott looked thoroughly thrown by this unexpected line of conversation. “Oh ... do you think it’s necessary?”
“Better be safe than sorry, don’t you agree?” In the same breath Kate went on, “I wanted to ask about your brother, Mr. George Prescott.”
“Oh yes, dear Georgie. How can I help you, Chief Inspector?” Relief at having finally got to the nitty-gritty shone from every pore of her guileless face.
“I understand from your brother that he visited you one evening last week. Which evening was it?”
“Tuesday,” Miss Prescott said at once.
“Are you absolutely sure about that?”
“Yes, absolutely sure. I remember because ... well, because a visit from George is a special occasion for me.”
“Oh? I gathered that he came to see you quite regularly.”
“Yes, yes he does, very regularly. But you see, I don’t get many visitors, Chief Inspector. That’s why having someone here is a special occasion. Particularly when it’s dear Georgie. And last Tuesday ... I made a steak and kidney pie for supper, that’s a favourite of his. Then we played Scrabble—till nearly eleven.”
Out had come the whole pathetic little fiction in one dollop. Not clever! Kate could see beads of perspiration on the woman’s upper lip. She turned chatty. “It must be a very quiet life for you, Miss Prescott, living in a small village.”
“I wouldn’t say that. There are all sorts of activities going on in Peterscombe.”
“Really? Things to do with the church and the WI, I expect?”
“Oh, lots more than that. We’re lucky to have a fine village hall, and that’s used almost every day for something or other. Each afternoon during the week there’s the Old Folks Club—I help out at that quite often, serving teas and so on. And in the evenings we have whist drives and things, and various classes. Then every other Friday there’s a painting course I go to, and the second Tuesday of each month the Literary Society has a meeting with a guest speaker. That’s always most enjoyable. So you see, I lead quite a busy life.”
The second Tuesday! “The Literary Society sounds interesting,” Kate said. “Who did you have to speak last time?”
“A Mr. Andrew Crowther, who’s written a fascinating book about his travels in Peru. He was saying that—”
“But surely, that would have been the evening your brother was here?”
“Oh dear!” Joan Prescott went chalky pale. She said hastily, “Of course, I didn’t go myself that time. Someone told me ... told me all about Mr. Crowther’s talk.”
“Miss Prescott, I’d only need to speak to one or two other members of the Literary Society and ask if you were there or not. Do you really want that?”
Tears glittered in her eyes. “You ... you tricked me.”
“Just as you were trying to trick me. What made you lie?”
“I ... I had to. My brother said I must, to stop you from suspecting him.”
“Suspecting him of what?”
Distress made it difficult for Joan Prescott to speak. She said between big choking swallows, “Of ... whatever it is you’re asking him questions about. He didn’t do it.”
“If you don’t know what it is, how can you know that he didn’t do it?”
“Because my brother couldn’t do anything bad. Oh, he can be naughty sometimes, and wilful ... but not
bad.”
She was talking of him as though of a child. Naughty Georgie! The eternally devoted older sister.
“You look very pale, Miss Prescott. Don’t you think you should sit down? Perhaps I could make you a cup of tea.”
She did sit, but refused the offer of tea. Her hands fluttered vaguely. “A ... a glass of wine, perhaps. If you’d be so kind, there’s a bottle of my parsnip in the cupboard there.”
Kate poured a generous measure in a blue-stemmed wineglass, and Joan Prescott took several long sips. Poor soul, it was beginning to look as though she had a much greater shock to come. If her adored brother was charged with murder, she would be utterly devastated.
When Kate left the cottage a few minutes later, the other woman’s deep distress made her feel mean about the sudden lightness of her own heart, because this confirmation that Prescott had given a false alibi seemed a big step towards clearing Richard Gower.
* * * *
A plastic bead curtain discreetly veiled the betting shop’s entrance from inquisitive passers-by. As Kate parted it and entered, all conversation instantly ceased. The unease of both customers and staff hung heavy on the tobacco-stale air.
She walked to the counter and showed her warrant card. “I want a word with the boss, please.”
The assistant hastily disappeared through a door at the rear. Within five seconds he was back, ushering Kate through. Her presence among the punters was bad for business.
Affluence was the name of the game to the man who rose to greet her from behind a large chrome and leather desk. Around fifty, with retreating hair and advancing stomach, there was a flash silkiness about him. He wore an expensive grey suit, with an electric-blue shirt and gold spotted tie. His two hands shared three fancy rings. He was all beaming affability—on the surface.
“How can I help you, sweetheart? Please park yourself.”
“I’m Detective Chief Inspector Maddox,” she said, taking the chair he indicated.
“Ah yes! Didn’t I read about you in the
Gazette
last week?” His eyes swept over her, lingering on her bust. “That pic didn’t do you justice, no way.”
Slimy git!
But she hadn’t thought that when Richard Gower said the very same thing.
“Am I talking to Mr. Brown, or Mr. Porter?” she asked politely.
“Neither. They both, alas, departed this life some time ago. I’m Vincent Tucker. I can’t imagine what a big cheese like a chief inspector can possibly want with me.”
“There’s a first time for everything, Mr. Tucker. Actually, I require some information concerning one of your clients.”
His eyes, the colour of warm flint, narrowed ever so slightly. “Aren’t you the one who’s investigating the death of that Latimer woman?”
“Right, I am.”
He tut-tutted disapprovingly. “It’s no sort of job for a lovely lady like yourself. Now, if I had my way, you’d be—”
“Shall we get on? I’d like you to give me some details about Mr. George Prescott’s account with you.”
“George Prescott? Is he involved in the case?”
“You don’t need to concern yourself with
why
I’m asking,” Kate said. “Just give me the facts I need.”
“Now, look here, lady, I’ve got my reputation to think of. I can’t hand out confidential information about my clients, not without I’m given a damn good reason.”