WEDNESDAY, 4 OCTOBER
Rutherford Hill was considered the highest point in Broadminster, although strictly speaking it lay just beyond the south-west boundary of the town. The highest point, not only topographically, but socially, for this was where the people with real money lived. Originally owned by the Rutherfords for more than two hundred years, the land had gradually slipped into the public domain as the Rutherford fortunes declined. Now, winding tree-lined streets connected the modern equivalent of country estates, their manicured lawns and floral gardens screened from public view by walls of brick or stone.
Sunlight filtered through an arch of trees, dappling the roads as Paget made his way to Lansdowne Lane. Leaves and small branches brought down by the storm on the weekend had been swept to one side and lay in neat piles ready to be taken away.
Number 700 Lansdowne. Open gates and a wide curving drive that led to the house: mock Tudor, two storeys, gabled roof-line. It was
charming in its way, with its leaded windows, beneath which stood white-painted tubs brimming with late-blooming flowers against a background of dark timbers. Even the window-boxes outside the upstairs windows overflowed with flowers and trailing vines.
But it was too set, a bit too much. What was the word Jill used to use? Twee, that was it. It reminded Paget of a country pub rather than a country house, and the home of the Beresfords.
Veronica Beresford was expecting him and answered the door herself. She greeted him pleasantly enough, but her manner was somewhat distant and aloof. She was a beautiful woman, elegant, suave, and stylish, and at least twenty years younger than her husband, who, Paget knew, having looked him up, was well over fifty.
“Please come through,” she told him, and led the way across a tiled floor to a spacious living-room. “Do sit down.” She waved a hand in the general direction of an armchair, then seated herself in a chair facing him and crossed her elegant legs.
“I must say you were rather mysterious on the telephone this morning,” she said. “I can’t think what I might have done that deserves the attention of a chief inspector.”
“I’ll try to be brief and not take up too much of your time,” he told her. “Do you know a man by the name of Mark Malone?”
“Mark Malone?” Veronica Beresford seemed surprised by the question. “Yes, I do,” she said slowly. “He is the manager of the Country Garden Nursery in Broadminster. Why do you ask? Perhaps you should be speaking to my husband.”
“No, it is you I have come to see,” said Paget, “because it is your name he gave me when I asked him if anyone could vouch for his whereabouts on the night of September twenty-third.”
Veronica frowned. “He gave my name?” she said in a puzzled voice. “Let’s see, when was the twenty-third?”
“A week ago last Saturday.” Paget watched the woman closely, but it was impossible to tell whether she was genuinely puzzled or not. “It was the night James Bolen was killed at the Tudor Hotel,” he added.
“Oh, yes. That was terrible, wasn’t it? We knew the Bolens, well, not knew them, exactly, if you know what I mean, but they have done quite a lot of work for my husband, and they came to the house several times when we were thinking of adding a new wing. It was such a shock to read of something like that happening here in Broadminster. Have you caught whoever did it? I’m afraid I don’t always keep up with the local news.”
Veronica Beresford reached for a small box on the low table beside her and took out a cigarette. She raised a delicate eyebrow in Paget’s direction, but he shook his head. “I keep promising myself I’ll give it up,” she sighed, “but I do so enjoy smoking.” She lit the cigarette and blew a stream of smoke toward the ceiling. “Now, what’s this about Mr. Malone and that Saturday evening?” she asked.
“I don’t know that there is any delicate way of putting this,” said Paget, “but Mark Malone claims he spent the night here with you. All night.”
Veronica Beresford became very still, and her eyes were suddenly cold, like chips of ice. “Is this some sort of joke, Chief Inspector?” she asked. “Because if it is, I fail to see the point, and I am most certainly not amused.”
“Believe me, Mrs. Beresford, it is not a joke,” said Paget. “Mark Malone claims that you and he have been having an affair for the past year, and he has stated categorically that he spent the night of September twenty-third here in this house with you. What I would like is a brief statement from you confirming or denying what he told me. I should point out that I am investigating a murder, and I am not the least bit interested in the private lives of anyone, unless directly connected to the investigation, so you won’t be compromised in any way.”
“Compromised?” Veronica Beresford’s eyes glittered. “I’ve never been so insulted in my life!” she flared. “Mr. Malone said that?” She drew on her cigarette. “I hardly know the man, and I must say I’m surprised at you, Chief Inspector, for giving credence to such a statement.”
“In view of what you are telling me, Mrs. Beresford, can you think of any reason why he would invent such a story?”
“I have absolutely no idea,” she said. “What’s he accused of, anyway? Surely not the murder of this man, Bolen?”
“All I can tell you, Mrs. Beresford, is that he needs an alibi for the time in question, and my impression is that he feels confident you will provide him with that alibi.” He paused. “This may sound impertinent in the light of what you’ve said, but would you mind telling me where you were that night?”
Veronica Beresford stubbed out her cigarette in an ashtray. “Yes, it does sound impertinent,” she agreed, “and while I can appreciate your position, Chief Inspector, I hope you can appreciate mine. I have no idea what possessed this man to give you my name, but if you must know, I was here with my husband by my side that night, and I can assure you that when he hears of this, Mr. Malone will be facing some very serious charges.”
Veronica Beresford rose to her feet, signalling an end to their discussion, and Paget followed suit. As he moved toward the door, he said, “Tell me, Mrs. Beresford, to your knowledge, has Malone ever been inside this house?”
She started to say no, then paused. “Yes, he has,” she said. “When he did the flower-boxes outside the windows, I remember him asking if he could plant those outside the upstairs windows from inside the room, rather than going up and down the ladder. I was a bit doubtful about it, but he promised not to make a mess, and I must say he did a very good job. He put plastic sheets down and cleaned up afterward.”
Her voice changed. “But to tell you that he spent …” Words appeared to fail her, and she was grim-faced as she opened the door.
“Thank you, Mrs. Beresford. Sorry to have troubled you,” said Paget, “but I must warn you that unless Mr. Malone withdraws his statement, I shall need a statement from you.”
“I don’t see why I should have to become involved at all,” she said indignantly.
“I can understand your reluctance, but I’m afraid it will be
necessary. Someone will ring you to arrange a time. Good day, and thank you again.”
When Paget had gone, Veronica Beresford turned and leaned against the door and closed her eyes. She heard a sound and opened them to see her husband standing there.
“Ten out of ten, my dear,” said Trevor Beresford. “One of your best performances. But I did warn you that Malone could be trouble.”
Veronica went to her husband and kissed him. “Sorry,” she said softly, “but I had no idea he was going to become mixed up with anything so sordid as murder.” She sighed. “If only he hadn’t been so set on marrying into a family with money. I wonder what he will do now?”
Trevor Beresford slipped his arm around his wife. “I’ve no idea,” he said, “but if he knows what’s good for him, he will have to change his story.”
“You don’t think he will do anything foolish, do you, Trevor?”
Her husband shook his head. “I’ll get on to our solicitor and ask him to have a quiet word. I think Malone will see reason.” He frowned and pursed his lips. “Unless, of course, they charge him with the murder,” he said thoughtfully. “I suppose you’re quite sure there is nothing at his place to show that you were ever there?”
Veronica smiled and shook her head. “Nothing,” she said. “There never is, is there? You know that.”
He returned her smile. “Pity we have to lose him, though,” he said wistfully. “He is so wonderfully photogenic, and so athletic.”
Veronica Beresford stepped back a pace and looked at her husband. “But no gentleman,” she said. “I think I shall have to do something about that. An anonymous gift to his girl-friend, perhaps? What do you think, Trevor?”
He nodded. “The very thing,” he agreed with mock seriousness. “It will be your good deed for the day.”
“Forensic says all results are negative on Mrs. Bolen’s car, with the possible exception of the rope,” said Sergeant Ormside. The fibres from the upholstery are not the same as those found on Simone’s clothing and in her hair, and the tyres do not match the impressions taken at the scene. There is nothing to indicate that a struggle took place in the car, and the rope matches only in the sense that it comes from the same manufacturer. As well, there are no finger- or palm prints matching those of the deceased. As far as they are concerned, the car can be returned to its owner.
“The only good news, if you can call it that, is that the fibres taken from Simone’s hair and clothing have been identified. They come from a blended fabric that was used extensively by car manufacturers five to eight years ago, and they’ve attached a list. Unfortunately, it’s a very long list, and most likely incomplete. It’s probably a waste of time, but since we’ve got bugger all else to go on, I’m having a couple of people go over the list to see if they can find anything that might tie in with one of the suspects.”
Still puzzled over the disparity between the stories of Malone and Mrs. Beresford, Paget nodded distractedly. He simply could not understand why Malone would name Veronica Beresford as his bed partner if he knew she would deny it. And deny it she had! In spades.
“I want Malone brought in for further questioning,” he said abruptly. “Someone has a hell of a lot of explaining to do.”
Ormside looked hard at Paget, but the chief inspector appeared to be lost in thought. “Right,” he said, and wondered if Paget had heard anything he’d just told him.
“Why didn’t you tell us this before?” Ormside demanded of the uniformed constable before him. “You must have known we were looking for information on Vikki Lane?”
“Nobody told me, Sarge,” the man protested. “See, me and Steve Roper did a switch that night, so his name was still on the roster. I just happened to hear that one of your blokes had been asking.”
“You were on duty the night the girl was brought in?”
“That’s right. And I checked on her by the book throughout the night.”
“That’s not what I’m after,” Ormside said impatiently. “What I want to know is: Did she talk to you? Did she say anything that might help us find her? Mention a name, a place, anything? Was she friendly with anyone in there? Do you remember her saying anything at all that might give us a clue to where she’s gone?”
The man scratched his head. “She didn’t talk to me,” he said. “She was sort of scared, like she’d never been in before. But I remember her and this older woman talking half the night. Every time I looked in, they were nattering away nineteen to the dozen.”
“What woman was this? A regular?”
“No. She was in on suspicion of attempting to steal a horse, but the charge was dropped in the morning.”
“A horse … ?” Ormside echoed, then waved the question aside. He didn’t want to know. “Did you hear any of their conversation?”
The constable shrugged. “You know how it is, Sarge. You go in, check, and leave again. I don’t spend any more time in there than I have to. Too many other things to do.”
“You have this woman’s name? The one Vikki was talking to?”
“Not with me, Sarge, but I could get it, if that’s what you want.”
“It’s what I want,” said Ormside, “and while you’re at it, I want her address, and anything else you have on file about her. And I want it now!”