Seven

Kevan de Vries stalked out of his drawing-room, slamming the door behind him pointedly. Tim Yates and Juliet Armstrong moved back to their original positions on the hearthrug. Although the house had thick walls, they had agreed by means of silently-exchanged looks that it would be inadvisable to talk while they were waiting for Tony Sentance to appear.

It took Sentance slightly longer to present himself than they had anticipated. Tim had been about to go in search of him when a light tap on the door heralded his arrival. He entered immediately.

“Sorry,” he said ingratiatingly, with a grimace that was meant to be a smile.

Tim had already taken a dislike to the man, although he and Juliet had engaged in only that one brief conversation with him at the airport and subsequently witnessed his brusque dismissal by Kevan de Vries in the hallway half an hour previously. Having the opportunity to observe Sentance at close quarters did not improve Tim’s opinion of him. The man’s face was almost mask-like in its glib plausibility, yet every so often the mask slipped to reveal some more naked emotion pushing its way up to the surface. At intervals, the right side of his temple, near the eye, twitched unprepossessingly. Whether this was owing to an underlying infirmity or Sentance’s imperfect attempt to present an unruffled exterior was impossible to say. His gaze flicked uneasily from Tim to Juliet, around the room and back to Tim again, in the process alighting upon the tray that had been deposited by Jackie Briggs. He seized upon it as if it were a lifeline.

“DI Yates, DC Armstrong, I’m so sorry, Mr Kevan appears to have forgotten to do the honours. He has a lot on his mind, of course. May I offer you tea or coffee?”

“Thank you, but no,” said Tim stiffly.

“I’d like some tea,” said Juliet. “Should I help myself?”

“Oh, please, allow me!”

He removed a cup from the stack, set it on a saucer and seized the teapot. His hand shook a little as he poured.

“Milk and sugar?”

“Just a little milk, thank you.”

Juliet held out her hand to take it. Once again, Sentance’s grip was unsteady. Some of the tea spilled into the saucer. Both chose to ignore this.

“Won’t you sit down?”

“Thank you, I prefer to stand,” said Tim. “Please take a seat yourself if you like.”

Tony Sentance smiled wryly and gave a funny little shake of his head. Tim had no idea what this meant, except that the man was apparently indicating that he would remain standing as long as Tim himself did so.

“Mr Sentance, I understand that you have a key to this house?”

“Yes, of course. I’m Mr Kevan’s right-hand man.”

“Do you often come here when he’s away?”

The eyes swivelled to the floor, then to a spot above the fireplace that was roughly level with Tim’s head.

“Not especially. Unless he asks me to.”

“So he usually knows if you come into the house during his absence?”

“Certainly. And until recently Joanna’s usually been here, even if Mr Kevan hasn’t.”

“So you may in fact have brought people here without his knowledge?”

Sentance’s eyes swerved away again. They collided briefly with Juliet’s, before fixing themselves on the teaspoon that he held in his hand.

“Only if Joanna didn’t tell him.” Not my fault, in that case, he was saying, loud and clear.

“How many times have you let yourself in since Mr and Mrs de Vries left for St Lucia last week?”

“None,” he said guilelessly. “Jackie let me in after she reported the burglary to the police on Sunday, and again today. I didn’t need to use my key on either occasion.”

“And those are the only times you’ve been here since your employer left?”

“As I’ve just said.” He gave a further irritating shake of the head.

“Who told you about the burglary on Sunday? I understand that Mrs Briggs had already let DC MacFadyen into the house when you appeared.”

There was a pause.

“I’m not sure. I think that Jackie herself must have called me. She’d have known that Mr Kevan would want me here if anything was wrong. Or it might have been Harry. He’s her husband,” he added in a confidential tone, as if the relationship were a secret. He flicked Juliet a brief smile.

Tim was writing notes.

“Thank you,” he said. “So you arrived and Mrs Briggs let you in. What happened next?”

“Jackie had been round the house with the cop... er... policeman to see if she thought anything was missing – besides what they found on that young tearaway, that is. I don’t think she thought that there was anything. Then your colleague noticed that the cellar door was open. He said he’d like to check down there and asked Jackie if she’d go with him. She said she’d never been in the cellar, so she couldn’t be of much help. She said that she doesn’t like enclosed spaces. So naturally I said I’d be happy to accompany him.”

“Did he ask you to?”

“No, but I knew Mr Kevan would want . . .”

“Precisely,” Tim agreed, cutting him short. “Had you been down there before yourself?”

Tony Sentance shrugged.

“On a couple of occasions, I suppose. Mr Kevan keeps his wine there. I think I’ve been asked to help him choose . . . When we’ve had business meetings here, you understand.”

“You only think, Mr Sentance? Don’t you know for certain?”

“Well, of course I know I’ve been in the cellar; I was just trying to recall the exact circumstances.”

“I see. How long ago would you say that was?”

Tony Sentance lifted his left forefinger theatrically to his lip and pressed it.

“You’ve got me there,” he said. “Some time ago, undoubtedly.”

“How long ago? Six months? A year? More than a year?”

“I’m sorry. I really can’t be precise.” Sentance looked affronted and slightly afraid, as if he suspected that he was about to be bullied.

“It is your job to be precise, though, isn’t it?”

The supercilious smile returned.

“With figures, DI Yates. My forte is figures and balance sheets. Sometimes I think they are more real to me than actual events, if you understand me.”

“I’m not sure that I do, sir. But I’ll take your word for it.”

Juliet divined that Tim was in danger of making Sentance so defensive that he would clam up completely. She leapt in before the implication of Tim’s last words could sink too deep.

“You know, of course, that DC MacFadyen found what we believe to be counterfeit passports in the cellar,” she said. “Did he show them to you?”

“Just briefly. He was keen to get them into his plastic bags, in case they had fingerprints on them, presumably.”

“Had you seen them before?”

Tony Sentance shrugged again.

“Yes and no, if you get my drift. From the outside, they looked just like ordinary UK passports to me. Naturally I wasn’t allowed to touch them.”

“Thank you.” She smiled at him warmly.

“Do you have any idea how they came to be there?”

Tony Sentance sighed. Juliet thought that it was possibly more out of relief than exasperation.

“Your colleague asked me that, too. No, I don’t know how they came to be there – any more than I know how most of the things Mr Kevan has in his house have come to be here. I think that’s what all of you police keep on forgetting. This is Mr Kevan’s house, not mine.”