“And now?”
“Under the terms of her new will, whilst there is a reasonable financial provision for Mr. Latimer, the main fortune, including all the land and the Grange itself, goes to a cousin of Mrs. Latimer’s.” He shook his head. “As things have turned out, it could be said that the cousin is a fortunate man indeed. Though perhaps he’ll be grieved by the circumstances of his inheritance.”
“Who is this cousin?” Kate asked.
“He’s a Stedham. Mr. Alexander Stedham. He resides in Kenya, where I understand he farms.” Baxter buzzed his secretary and asked for the address, which he jotted down and handed to Kate. “But he has no inkling of the inheritance that is coming to him.”
“Really?”
“Mrs. Latimer was most insistent that he should not be informed. Most insistent.”
Sergeant Boulter put in an observation. “Isn’t it a little odd, sir, for that to be so? I’d have thought that most people would like their beneficiaries to be grateful for their coming good fortune.”
“My client’s reasons for secrecy were her own concern, Sergeant, not yours or mine.”
“Perhaps,” Kate suggested, “Mrs. Latimer felt that she might want to change things back at some future date. What caused her to take such a drastic step, Mr. Baxter?”
“As to that,” the solicitor said stiffly, “she did not choose to take me into her confidence. I can only say that at the time in question she was very irate. Very irate indeed.”
“Did you draw any private conclusions?”
“If I did, Chief Inspector, that is how they will remain— private.”
“Mr. Latimer informed us this morning that he doesn’t know the terms of his wife’s will. Is this possible?”
“Where people are concerned, my dear lady, you have surely discovered by now that anything is possible.”
Up yours, too.
“When will you break the news to Mr. Latimer that he will inherit comparatively little? Always assuming that it will be news to him.”
Baxter looked uneasy. “The, ah ... the proper time for that will be after the funeral.”
Postponing the evil day? Tough job, to tell a man with whom you’ve probably hobnobbed socially that he’s not going to get the cool few millions’ worth of property he’s expecting.
“In the circumstances,” Kate observed, “the funeral is likely to be somewhat delayed.” She stood up, and the two men followed suit. “Thank you for your help, Mr. Baxter.”
“Not at all, Chief Inspector. I’m always more than happy to assist my friends in the Force in any way I can.”
“Bloody liar,” muttered Boulter as they emerged from the building onto the pavement. “You should hear him in court, twisting the words of some raw young copper when one of his upper-crust clients is up on a drunk-driving charge.”
“That came from the heart, Tim. Personal experience?”
He gave her a lopsided grin. “Will I ever forget it?”
“How does that new will alter our thinking?” Kate floated the question.
“Did
Latimer know about it, or didn’t he? I’m still convinced that he must have known what was in the first one. So what did he do that made his wife angry enough to virtually disinherit him?”
“And did her doing that make Latimer angry enough to have her wasted?”
“Which wouldn’t have done him any good financially. On the other hand, if she’d
threatened
to disinherit him and Latimer didn’t think she’d got around to it yet, he might have had her disposed of before she did.”
“If so, he’s come unstuck in a big way, hasn’t he?”
“At any rate,” said Kate, “we have a new candidate now—that suddenly lucky cousin. First thing when we get back, Tim, make a call to Kenya and have him checked out.”
But when they reached the Incident Room they were greeted with news that gave the Kenya cousin a much lower priority. A PC on the beat in Marlingford had spotted the wanted car, parked bold as you please in the Market Square. The owner, furthermore was a prominent figure in the neighbourhood—Richard Gower, the proprietor of the local weekly newspaper which bore the impressive title of
Marlingford Gazette, Chipping Bassett Courier and South Cotswold Post and Times.
“Tim, what can you tell me about this man Gower?” asked Kate.
There was little other traffic on the winding road that spanned the twelve miles of open country between Chipping Bassett and Marlingford. Buttercups in the meadows that rose and dipped on either side of them sparkled with golden brightness in the warm sun of the May afternoon.
“He’s fairly new to the district, ma’am. He bought the
Gazette
from the previous owner about three years ago. Before that he was a foreign correspondent on one of the national dailies, and the way I heard it he got in the path of a sniper’s bullet. Somewhere in the Middle East, I think. It’s left him with quite a limp.”
“Age?”
“Mmm. Forty-fiveish.”
“Is he married?”
“Divorced, I believe, but that was before he came to this area.”
“Anything to connect him with Mrs. Latimer? An affair?”
“Not a whisper, not to my knowledge. I’ve seen him around with various women in the pubs and so on, but never with her. He lives in Chipping Bassett, though, so he was right on her doorstep.”
“He lives alone?”
The sergeant nodded. “Nice place he has, too, judging from the outside. It’s one of the flats in Borough House, that big old place on the corner of Duck Lane.”
“What sort of reputation does he have?”
“Mixed. Most people seem to speak well of him, and he’s certainly livened up the
Gazette
since he took it over. But he’s managed to upset one or two local big shots in the process.”
“Is he pro-police or anti?”
Boulter grinned. “A couple of times he’s made the big chief hopping mad by splashing a story about a police cock-up.”
“Whatever makes the juiciest headline, right?”
“Well, between you and me, Gower hasn’t always got it wrong.”
Marlingford was a pleasant place, without too much of the straggly modern outskirts that spoil the charm of so many old towns. Entering from the south, Kate and Boulter headed straight for the Market Square. This wasn’t really a square in shape, but just a sudden widening of the main street which once upon a time would have been filled each market day with trundling wool wagons. Now it was even more jam packed with parked cars. Boulter nosed into an illegal space and they both got out.
A few yards along they came to where a dark blue Volvo was guarded by a uniformed PC. Passers-by, scenting nothing more than a minor traffic infringement, carried the smug grins of the virtuous. A Scenes of Crime officer, summoned on Kate’s instructions, was giving the Volvo a rapid examination. Boulter introduced him as Steve Phelan.
“This is the car all right, sir ... sorry, ma’am.” A slip of the tongue, no question. To Phelan, Kate was a chief inspector. Not a man, not a woman, just the rank. Bully for him!
Phelan took them on a tour of inspection, pointing out a slightly dented front bumper, non-matching tyres on the front wheels, pale brown mud and torn grass spattered all over the rear wheel arches. “The clincher,” he said, “if we needed one, is that there are shreds of clothing and smears of blood on the underside. No need to look for yourself, ma’am, it’s there all right. Forensics will dot the i’s.”
Kate nodded to the PC on the beat who had spotted the car. “Nice work, Constable. Now we’d better have it taken away.”
“On a low-loader, I suggest,” Phelan said. “We don’t want to risk destroying any evidence by having it driven.”
“Agreed. So see to that, will you, please? Sergeant Boulter and I will go and interview the owner.”
The headquarters of the
Marlingford Gazette, Chipping Bas-sett Courier and South Cotswold Post and Times
was crammed into a dark little building up a narrow alleyway off the Market Square. It leaned lovingly towards its opposite neighbour, almost blocking out the sky. The entrance door was propped open, and the linseedy odour of printers’ ink drifted out. Inside, Kate and the sergeant were confronted by a red-painted warning on a plank door—WORKS, NO ADMITTANCE—from behind which came the muffled thump of a small press. An arrow pointed up a flight of rickety stairs with the words EDITORIAL, ADVERTISEMENT, AND COMMERCIAL PRINTING DEPARTMENTS. They accepted the implied invitation and found themselves in a cramped lobby with a wooden counter. Boulter put his finger on the bell marked
PRESS
FOR
ATTENTION
, and this produced a pretty but flustered young woman from an inner office. She appeared even more flustered when she learned who they were.
“Mr. Gower’s ever so busy. It’s press day, you see, and—”
“This is important,” said Kate. “Please tell him we’re here.”
The girl withdrew, leaving the glass door ajar, and an instant later they heard a protesting groan from within. They were intended to hear it, Kate surmised. Then they were being ushered inside. The office was small and cluttered; the shirt-sleeved occupant was tall and spare. He was seated at an old-fashioned rolltop desk, and rose to greet them with an awkward movement, levering himself up with his arms.
“Chief Inspector Maddox, this is an unexpected pleasure. We’re carrying a little welcome piece about you this week with a short bio provided by your Press Office. But I’d like it if you’d let us do a personal in-depth interview. You know the sort of thing, what it’s like for a woman to take on a high-ranking job in the police. The special problems she’s up against and so on.”
Kate was thrown by this friendly approach. “I’m much too busy for press interviews just now, and—”
“No hurry. Whenever it’s convenient.” Tilting his head, Richard Gower looked at her assessingly and said with a smile, “That photograph your PR people sent out didn’t do you justice. Now, how can I help you?” He gestured to chairs, one alongside the desk, the other set against the wall and piled with manila files. “Just chuck that stuff on the floor, Sergeant.”
“First of all, sir,” said Boulter, ignoring the invitation and remaining on his feet, “will you please confirm that you are Mr. Richard Andrew Gower, and that you reside at apartment two, Borough House, Chipping Bassett.”
Gower stared at them both, frowning. “This sounds very formal. What’s going on?”
“Please, sir, answer my question.”
“Yes, of course I’m Richard Gower and that’s my address.”
“You’ve heard about the death of Mrs. Belle Latimer?” asked Kate.
“Naturally. In fact, one of my reporters has just given me a statement supplied by you people. It’s here somewhere.” He scrabbled around in the mass of papers strewn across his desk and plucked one out, scanning it rapidly. “Killed in a hit-and-run last night in a lane near her home while taking her dog for a walk. Do you want me to print a request for anyone with information to come forward? You’re only just in time. We go to press in a couple of hours.”
Kate had let Gower run on while she observed him. He was lean, almost skinny, with hollow cheeks and sunken dark eyes that burned with intelligence. What would once have been a mass of hair as black as her own was prematurely grey, but still thick. His movements were quick and impatient, and he had the strained look of a person who’d endured a lot of pain. He was a complex man, that was clear, and in other circumstances she’d have liked to get to know him better. There was something oddly attractive about him.
“Our Press Office will let you know if we want any help in that direction,” Kate said, and continued without pause, “Mr. Gower, are you the owner of a dark blue Volvo saloon, registration number D942 WPL?”
“If you say so. I can never remember numbers of cars.”
“This is important.”
His jaw twisted sideways. “Yes, that’s right. It is my car. Why do you want to know?”
“Before we go any further, I’m going to ask the sergeant to caution you and explain your rights.”
Boulter cleared his throat in a display of formality. “You are not under arrest, sir, and if you ask us to leave we must do so. If you allow us to remain, you are entitled to obtain legal advice before answering any further questions.” He then went into the official caution. “You do not have to say anything unless you wish to do so, but what you say may be given in evidence.”
“What the hell is all this about?” Gower looked bewildered. Then his eyes narrowed and he burst out furiously, “Concerning Mrs. Latimer’s death? This is crazy! You can’t imagine that I had anything to do with it.”
“I’d like you to account for your movements yesterday evening,” Kate said, “say, between eight and eleven.”
“I certainly wasn’t crashing around the countryside in my car knocking people down.” He rose to his feet again and stood glowering at them. Kate noted that he favoured his left leg, so that the shoulder on that side was higher than the other. “Presumably, you have reason to think that a dark blue Volvo was involved, and you leapt to the conclusion that it was mine.”
“We didn’t do any leaping, Mr. Gower. The car that killed Mrs. Latimer was undoubtedly the one belonging to you.”
For a few moments he was speechless. Then, “Now, that really is bullshit. I know precisely where my car was parked yesterday evening, and I didn’t move it an inch.”
“Where was that?”
“In my usual spot. Round at the side of Borough House in Duck Lane.”
“Is there anyone who might be able to confirm that fact? Someone living in one of the other flats at Borough House, perhaps?”
“How should I know? We come and go without reference to each other.”
“So if your car was there, where were you, Mr. Gower?”
“At home, of course.”
“For the entire evening?”
“From about eight-thirty, I suppose.” He sat down once more, and continued speaking in a slow, precise voice, as if making an effort to humour the madwoman. “I didn’t leave this office until after seven. I went to the Market Inn across the square for a drink and a meal at the bar, then I drove straight home to Chipping Bassett.”
“And there you remained?”
“That’s right.”
“Alone?”
“As it turned out, yes.”