“That’s right. So?”
“Sergeant,” she said.
Boulter referred to his notebook, though he certainly wouldn’t have needed to. “Information has reached us, sir, that soon after twelve noon on Friday, the first of May, you arrived at Hambledon Grange to have lunch with Mrs. Latimer.”
Gower stared at the sergeant. He stared at Kate. “Oh,” he said finally, “that.”
“Yes, Mr. Gower, that.” Kate’s tone was chilly.
“A single lunch doesn’t add up to an intimate relationship, if that’s what you’re suggesting.”
“Maybe not. But in the circumstances it does require explaining.”
“There’s a perfectly simple explanation.”
“Then perhaps we may have it.”
Gower picked up a ball-point from the table and started running it through his fingers, back and forth. “I didn’t mention this yesterday because it didn’t seem relevant. Mrs. Latimer invited me to lunch that day because she wanted a private word about how the
Gazette
might help her in a certain matter.”
“Keep going.”
“It concerned a charitable fund we were both involved with. For an extension to the Chipping Bassett Leisure Centre. She was on the organizing committee, and the
Gazette
was backing the project with publicity. Mrs. Latimer had reason to suspect that some of the money collected was being creamed off. Naturally she wanted that stopped. But she was afraid that if anything about it leaked out, people’s feelings would be so outraged that the flow of contributions would dry up and put paid to the entire scheme. She suggested a private meeting with me so that we could discuss ways and means of catching the culprit out without creating a public scandal.”
It was a far-fetched story that couldn’t be either proved or disproved, just like his alibi for the time of the killing.
“If this is true,” said Kate, “I don’t see why you couldn’t have told us yesterday.”
“You weren’t at the sharp end of a third degree. When you’re as near as damn it accused of murder, it seems best to keep quiet about an association that might be misconstrued.” He snorted. “But I don’t expect you to understand that.”
“Okay, we’ve had the excuses,” she said. “Now we’ll have the details. Who was the person, or persons, whom Mrs. Latimer suspected of misappropriation of funds?”
He pulled a reluctant face. “She had no definite proof, you must realise that.”
“Were you yourself suspicious?”
“After what Belle told me, I had to be.”
“Belle? You knew her well enough to be on first-name terms?”
Gower flushed. “She invited me to call her Belle—half-way through lunch, by which time we’d downed a couple of dry martinis and most of a bottle of Nuits St. Georges. It was done condescendingly, if you must know. I guess she thought she was granting me a favour.”
“Perhaps,” said Kate, holding eye contact, “by the time you’d finished the bottle of wine and maybe a liqueur or two as well, she was in a mood to grant something more in the way of favours.”
“Damn you, no.”
“So let’s get back to where we were. What was it Mrs. Latimer said to convince you that she was right about someone creaming off the Leisure Centre funds?”
For a few moments Gower said nothing, regarding her with a look of hatred. Then he began in a flat, uncaring voice, “We’ve had all kinds of fund-raising activities going on ever since last summer ... fetes, garden parties, sponsored swims, an old-time music hall at Christmas—you name it. Last month, at a meeting of the Ladies’ Circle, a collecting box was passed round for the Leisure Centre extension. To test her suspicions, Belle Larimer went armed with twenty-five pound coins and slipped these in. Yet the total recorded as collected that afternoon was only just over twenty-seven pounds. It was quite unbelievable that the rest of the women had put in only a couple of pounds altogether.”
“Who was responsible for counting the money?”
“The sealed box went straight to the honourable accountant.”
“And that is?”
Gower hesitated, still reluctant, then said, “George Prescott.”
“He’s a local chartered accountant, ma’am,” put in Sergeant Boulter.
“Did you speak to Mr. Prescott about it?” Kate asked Gower. “Challenge him?”
He shook his head. “We were still debating exactly how to tackle the matter, bearing in mind the need to avoid a public showdown that might affect future donations. I suppose it’s possible that Belle Latimer threw it at him in a fit of anger. She didn’t like being cheated, and she could be impetuous at times.”
“Is that so?” Kate gave him a direct look. “It seems to me that you knew the lady a lot better than you’re admitting.”
She saw him clench his fists in anger. “She was a forceful woman. Anyone could have guessed that much about her in just a few minutes’ conversation.”
“I see. Have you anything more to tell us, Mr. Gower?”
“Nothing,” he said shortly. Then he met Kate’s eyes and continued in a more reasonable voice, “Well, there is one thing, not to do with this. I remembered something last night that might be significant, and I’ve put it into my statement.”
“Yes?”
“It’s about my car. Yesterday morning, when I got in to drive to the office, the seat seemed to be in the wrong position and I had to adjust it a notch further back. Because of my stiff leg, you see, driving is uncomfortable if the seat’s not exactly right. I didn’t really think about it at the time, just made the adjustment. But ...”
“You’re saying that this proves that someone else drove the car between the time you left it outside your home on Tuesday evening and used it again yesterday morning?”
“Well, it’s a pointer, isn’t it?”
“Perhaps—if you’re telling the truth. I have to inform you, though, that only one set of driver’s fingerprints was found on your car when it was examined. Since you drove it to Marlingford yesterday morning, they must be yours. Unless you wear gloves for driving?”
“No, I don’t.”
“We’ll make a comparison, of course, with the prints you’ll be providing for us this morning, but I don’t think there can be any doubt, do you?”
His mouth tightened. “The other person could have been wearing gloves.”
“That’s true, Mr. Gower, if that other person exists.” Kate rose abruptly to her feet. “I’ll send the officer back so you can complete your statement. You’ll need to amend it now in the light of what you’ve told me about your relationship with Mrs. Latimer.”
* * * *
The interview with Gower had done nothing to improve Kate’s mood. Damn the man, why couldn’t he produce a shred of hard evidence to substantiate his story? Failing that, he’d have to remain the prime suspect. Except that there was no obvious motive. There was a possibility of his having colluded (for a financial advantage) with the victim’s husband and/or cousin, either one of whom might have been banking on a fortune coming to him as a result of her death. Or Gower could have acted alone for personal reasons. Perhaps he
had
been her lover after all, and they’d quarrelled. Kate angrily threw out these unwanted theories; then, reluctantly, the professional in her called them back for cool assessment.
There was, of course, Gower’s involved story about Mrs. Larimer’s suspicions concerning the accountant, George Prescott. It might even be true, but where would that get her? Still, it was something to be checked out.
Over a cup of coffee with her sergeant in the DHQ canteen (to which he added a sausage roll and a wedge of lemon cheesecake), Kate made it clear that she had no desire to talk—about the case or about anything else. She sat there silent and brooding; then, abruptly telling Boulter to fix an appointment for them to see Prescott soonest possible, she took herself off to the superintendent’s office.
“Something new, Mrs. Maddox?” He waved Kate into a chair, his cheerless expression conveying plainly that he expected nothing from her.
Kate filled him in on the latest developments. When she’d finished, there was a brief silence before he spoke.
“That’s all you’ve got?”
For a brief, rebellious moment Kate wondered if the bastard actually wanted her to fail, just to lend weight to the chauvinist doctrine that women have no place in the higher ranks of the police force. But she at once rejected the thought as unjust. Jolly Joliffe was a damn fine police officer with a first-class record. He wanted results, from wheresoever and whomsoever.
“The leads we do have, sir, seem to point in different directions.”
He scratched the side of his long nose thoughtfully. “You’ll need to watch Gower. That man’s no hick journalist. For God’s sake don’t let him catch you out in any procedural cock-ups.”
“Thanks for the tip,” she said meekly.
The superintendent leaned back and crossed his legs. “You’ll be off to see George Prescott now?”
“Yes, that’s next on the agenda. Sergeant Boulter says that he’s never heard any whispers against Prescott. Is there anything you can tell me about him, sir?”
“Hmm.” He mused. “I wouldn’t cast him as a villain. Widowed a few years ago, leads a quiet life, except ... I do happen to know he likes a flutter on the gee-gees. I saw him at Cheltenham on Gold Cup day, and he had the harrowed look of a man who’s lost a packet. But George Prescott is quite a pillar of the community in Chipping Bassett, so be careful how you handle him, my dear.”
His dear! His bloody dear!
“I’ll keep what you say well in mind, sir.”
A wave of the hand indicated that the audience was at an end. “The ACC’s getting edgy about this case, Chief Inspector, so for God’s sake come up with something that I can feed him. Without delay, please.”
Such as an arrest and a watertight case for the prosecution before noon?
Oh yes, Mr. Superintendent sir, I’ll do that small thing for you.
On her way out, Kate glanced in at her own office, waiting lone and empty for her to take up residence. How long would that be?
* * * *
George Prescott’s office was on the ground floor of a gloomy Victorian building standing behind the Council House in Chipping Bassett. A reception area was crowded with small desks and tall filing cabinets and two largish women. The accountant’s own room was a degree more spacious, but it had the same slightly shabby air. As did the man himself. On the short side and the plump side, he was the antithesis of smart. Kate knew that this might well be deliberately cultivated. It wasn’t always wise for a professional man to appear too prosperous; his clients got to thinking he was doing too well out of them.
“Good morning, Chief Inspector ... Sergeant. Please sit down. I wonder ... would you excuse me for just one moment. I have this important letter to get off.”
“Of course, sir.”
The one moment stretched as he read the letter through carefully, then set about adding his signature. This was a process that needed squaring up to, a couple of trial runs of sketching with the pen in the air before the name was executed on paper. Then he went to the door and handed the letter out.
“Right, that’s dealt with. Now, what can I do for you, Chief Inspector?”
Kate made a slant-wise approach to her objective. She wanted him sitting comfortably, as unalarmed as possible by this visit from the police.
“I’m glad to make your acquaintance, Mr. Prescott. I’ve just joined the division, you know, so I’m very much the new girl.”
A pale smile on a pale face. His balding forehead gleamed sweatily. He was as nervous as hell, but Kate wouldn’t condemn a man for that reason alone. “I, er ... I was reading about you in the
Gazette.”
Kate had seen the piece herself that morning. Clearly lifted direct from the handout provided by the PR department at headquarters, it was blandly worded; the accompanying photograph, smudgily reproduced, over-emphasised (Kate thought) her thick dark eyebrows and square chin. Sure enough, as Richard Gower had said, it didn’t do her justice.
“In that case, Mr. Prescott, you will also have seen the news item about Mrs. Belle Latimer’s death.”
“Indeed, yes. A dreadful business. Most tragic.”
Kate deliberately didn’t respond, and he babbled on, “Whoever would believe a hit-and-run accident like that could happen in this quiet neighbourhood? Quite dreadful. The poor lady will be sadly missed.”
Accident? His choice of word was curious. The
Gazette
(as could be expected in the circumstances) had given the item only minimal coverage, referring to it as a hit-and-run tragedy with not so much as a hint of there being suspicious overtones. But the buzz all over the district was of murder. So who did George Prescott think he was kidding?
“You knew Mrs. Latimer?” she queried.
“Knew?” Prescott seemed dumbfounded. “I, er ... I was her accountant, so, er ... naturally I ...”
“You were Mrs. Latimer’s accountant?” A surprise, this. “You mean, I take it, for the business of the Hambledon Estate, the farms and stables?”
“Yes. I ... I’ve handled Mrs. Latimer’s financial affairs for a number of years.”
“So you knew her quite well?”
“Not, er ... we weren’t exactly on social terms. But, er ... yes, quite well.”
“Would you say she was a person with enemies, Mr. Prescott? People who might be glad to have her out of the way?”
There was terror in his pale eyes. “Are you really suggesting that ... ?”
“Please, sir,” said Boulter swiftly, “just answer the chief inspector’s question.” The sergeant had immaculate timing, Kate noted with approval. Mostly self-effacing during an interview, he came in with precisely the right weight and pace when required.
“Whoever could possibly want to ... to do anything so ... ?” Prescott was waffling.
“You can’t think of anyone, then?”
“No one. Certainly not. No.”
“How well did you yourself get on with Mrs. Latimer?” Kate asked.
“Perfectly well. Yes, perfectly well. I didn’t have what you might call a great deal of personal contact with her. My staff handle the day-to-day work.”
“Who would they be, sir?” Boulter had his pen poised, ready to take down the names.
“Well, only Mrs. Knight, really. She attends the estate office two mornings a week to keep the books in good order. That’s a service I offer to local farmers and small businesses.”