Cross read the couple’s body language as entitled and inconvenienced, as soon he came into the VA suite. Tamsin Cotterell looked around her immediate vicinity as if searching for hidden germs. She was in her early thirties and clearly pregnant. Barnaby Cotterell was a little older, late forties possibly. He was well built and sat with an attitude that said he considered his physique to be a useful attribute in any given situation, but particularly ones with an element of confrontation. As if his mere presence was a negotiating tool in itself. The main thing that struck Cross’s ultrasensitive olfactory system was the invisible cloud of scent that hung in the room. What made it almost unbearable for the detective was the fact that it was a clear case of two conflicting perfumes that had absolutely nothing in common and were fighting for superiority. This made him wonder whether couples should consult with each other first thing in the morning about their respective scents for that day, in the same way they might discuss clashing outfits. He walked over to the window and opened it.
‘Good idea, it is rather stuffy in here, don’t you think?’ Tamsin asked Cross.
‘Not particularly,’ answered Cross. ‘I’ve opened the window because I find yours and your husband’s liberal application of perfume nauseating.’
Her mouth dropped open in shock.
‘Why are you here?’ Cross asked as he sat.
‘Our neighbour has been murdered,’ said her husband as if explaining the obvious to an unintelligent underling.
‘Correct. Did you do it?’ Cross asked.
‘No,’ he replied.
‘So, again. Why are you here?’
‘Because we wanted to get ahead of it,’ replied the wife.
‘Get ahead of what?’ asked Cross.
‘The situation,’ she explained, looking at her husband as if to ask what they were dealing with here.
‘What situation?’ asked Cross.
‘Are you being deliberately obtuse?’ asked Barnaby Cotterell.
Cross made no reply. Not because he was offended in any way and wanted to indicate this. He was simply trying to ascertain whether this had been said out of innate arrogance or incipient fear. This couple had driven back down from London having made the journey home less than thirty-six hours earlier. What time had they got up that morning? He also wondered whether, as they lived in London, they had that oft-held metropolitan prejudice about policemen outside of the big city – that they were either stupid, bad at their job or probably both.
‘I am not, deliberately nor otherwise. Why are you here?’ he asked again, as if it were the first time.
‘Our neighbour has been murdered,’ Barnaby Cotterell repeated. He was beginning to sound exasperated.
‘Did you do it?’ Cross asked again.
‘No!’ said Tamsin.
‘I’d like to speak to your superior,’ added her husband.
‘Where were you the night before last?’ asked Cross, ignoring him.
‘On our way back to London,’ said Tamsin, relieved that the conversation was finally moving on.
‘From where?’ asked Cross.
‘Crockerne, obviously,’ replied Barnaby.
‘Why is that obvious?’ asked Cross.
‘Because that is where our house is,’ said Barnaby.
‘What time did you leave?’ asked Cross.
‘Around eight.’
‘And now you’ve driven all the way back down from London. Have you taken time off work?’ Cross went on.
‘I have. Tammy is on maternity leave.’
‘Why?’
‘Why what? She’s pregnant, that’s why,’ replied Barnaby testily.
‘Why did you feel the need to come back so quickly? Come back to see the police, more specifically?’ asked Cross.
‘Are you serious?’
This was a question Cross was asked a lot in the course of his work. It puzzled him as it seemed perfectly obvious that he was being serious. He had taken to not answering it.
‘Our neighbour has been murdered,’ Barnaby reiterated.
As this was simply a statement and didn’t answer Cross’s question, he again said nothing. Just looked at them. He was still waiting for an answer.
‘We and Moreton didn’t get along,’ Barnaby said finally. ‘Our relationship wasn’t what you might call neighbourly or cordial.’
‘What would you call it?’
‘He was an antagonistic old bastard, short and long of it.’
‘Barnaby,’ his wife cautioned.
‘How exactly was he antagonistic?’ asked Cross.
‘Right from the get-go he was a problem,’ said Tamsin.
Cross now opened his file.
‘Would this have something to do with the lane next to his property?’ he asked.
‘Yes. The lane we shared,’ Tamsin said.
‘His lane which you had use of through an easement,’ Cross pointed out.
‘That’s what I said,’ she insisted.
Cross looked at her but decided not to pursue this.
‘You went to court. Twice,’ Cross noted.
‘Yes,’ Barnaby replied with a sigh. He knew where this was going.
‘And lost on both occasions. The second actually concerning the non-compliance of the first judgement,’ Cross pointed out. ‘Non-compliance in the form of non-payment.’
Neither of them replied. Cross continued to read, turning the pages over in his file with concentrated deliberation.
‘You accused Mr Moreton of slashing the tyres on your Range Rover,’ Cross continued.
Again, no reply.
‘You must have known he had a security camera on the back of his property but were obviously unaware this camera covered the front part of the property where you park your car. Which revealed you late at night, slashing the tyres of your own vehicle, Mr Cotterell. That can’t have reflected well on you in court.’
Cross then went back to the folder and continued to read. He came across something which obviously surprised him.
‘You also accused him of constantly blocking the drive with vehicles. You provided a photograph showing a van blocking Mrs Cotterell’s car. But it transpired this was a delivery van who had wrongly attempted to make a delivery addressed to you, at Mr Moreton’s house. The driver left the van where it was, then walked up to your house to make a delivery. But he was unable to because Mrs Cotterell had driven past him, then photographed her car being blocked by the van as an attempt to provide evidence against Mr Moreton. To prove your point, as it were.’
Cross now looked up and attempted to seem puzzled.
‘And yet you claim he was the problem. An interesting way of looking at it. In the light of all this I’m beginning to understand your speedy return today,’ he said.
‘Well, yes. That is why we’re here,’ said Tamsin, nervously.
‘It was obvious you might point the finger at us,’ said Barnaby.
‘Except, of course, that we haven’t. However obvious it might have seemed to you, Mr Cotterell. Did you need to buy petrol for the journey to London when you left Crockerne?’ Cross asked.
‘Yes,’ Barnaby replied.
‘Do you have a receipt?’
‘I do.’ He got his wallet out of his jacket and produced a receipt which he handed over.
Cross examined it. ‘Well, that certainly accounts for your whereabouts at eight seventeen that night. But not your wife’s.’
‘She was with me, obviously,’ he replied.
‘Again, our understanding of what is obvious or not plainly differs.’ He closed the file. ‘I need to amass more information before questioning you further. Would you object if we had a look around your property, the house and gardens?’
They looked at each other, which Cross noted.
‘Not at all,’ replied Barnaby.
Cross got up and walked to the door. He turned.
‘Oh, one last question. Do you own a dog?’
‘We do. Two, actually.’
‘What breed?’
‘Rhodesian Ridgebacks.’
‘Do you bring them to the country with you at weekends?’
‘Obviously,’ replied Barnaby Cotterell.
‘Obviously,’ repeated Cross. ‘There you go again.’ Then he left.
The couple looked at each other, not sure what to do next. They were saved by a PC opening the door and offering to show them out.