Bad news from the forensic laboratory. After only a single day’s immersion in the filthy water of the gravel pit, Corinne Saxon’s diary was virtually indecipherable. The lab people would continue to apply every known technique to try and unlock its secrets. But the prognosis was gloomy.
There was one tiny bit of good news, though. Some figures written on the flyleaf in a different hand from Corinne’s and with a different type of pen could partially be made out. Six digits, three of which were clear, one could be a five or a six, one a two or a seven. The final figure was unreadable. From the first two digits it was recognizable as a local telephone number.
“Get someone to work out the possible permutations, Tim, then ask Telecom to provide a list of all the subscribers matching that list of numbers.”
For lunch Kate had a meal on a tray in her office, provided by the kitchens of Streatfield Park. A small, delicious avocado and watercress salad, a portion of game pie (how right you were, Tim) and a dish of late raspberries with cream. Plus a pot of coffee that was light years away from the muck served in the canteen at DHQ.
Refreshed, she felt ready for the result of the numbers game. There was quite a list of possible variations. All but two, though, appeared to be totally unconnected with Corinne Saxon. They’d have to be checked out, of course, but that job had a fairly low priority. Of the two numbers that remained, one was that of a market gardener who regularly supplied organically grown produce for the hotel. Kate had often bought saladings from the roadside stall by his smallholding, and considered him a very unlikely candidate for an intimate relationship with Corinne Saxon. The other possibility looked more promising, being the residential phone number of the architect who’d worked on the conversion of Streatfield Park. Adrian Berger.
On Kate’s office wall were the photographs Richard had sent her, taken by the Gazette’s photographer at the launch party. One showed Berger in a group. As she recalled him, he’d been a pleasant, affable man. Good-looking, too. Nearing fifty, he was of medium height, with a small bristly moustache, tanned skin and bright sky-blue eyes that darted around alertly. Not surprisingly, he’d been on quite a high that day, what with the congratulations being showered on him and the champagne flowing like water. Standing beside him, his wife looked coolly supercilious, as if accepting the homage to her husband as no more than her due. Kate remembered overhearing her explaining to someone that it had been her father’s money and influence that had started Adrian Berger in his successful architect’s practice.
Thoughtfully, she buzzed for the action report on the original interview with Berger. DC Cowan who’d gone to see him on the Saturday had reported that he’d appeared very upset indeed about Corinne Saxon’s death, especially at the fact that she’d been brutally raped first (as it had then been believed). Questioned on his whereabouts at the time of the killing, he’d at first taken offence, then given the name of a junior partner at his firm. The two men had spent the entire afternoon at a cottage near Larkhill, which they were modernizing for a client.
Kate picked up the phone. “Is Nick Cowan around?” she asked.
“Yes, he is, ma’am.”
“Send him in, will you?”
DC Cowan had chalked up several years’ experience in the CID. A six-footer and a natty dresser, he was a man who fancied himself popular with women. There’d been one occasion when Kate had had to slap him down hard; since which time he’d been wise enough never to step out of line with her. His manner now as he entered her office was cautious, with an undertow of resentment.
“Something wrong ... ma’am?”
“Not that I know of,” Kate said equably, waving him into a chair. “I just wanted a word with you about this chap Adrian Berger, the architect. Is there anything you can add to your report, Nick? Any impressions about the man?”
“A bit of a wimp, I thought,” he said contemptuously. “He seemed really shaken-up by the Saxon woman’s death. He must have realised it made him look pretty feeble, and he apologised for it.”
“Apologised?”
“Muttered something to the effect that as they’d been working together such a lot, it’d come as a terrible shock to him. Almost in tears, the man was. And the fact that she was raped ... well, he just couldn’t seem to believe it. As if that sort of thing doesn’t happen. Christ, some of these middle-class bods seem to live in another world from the rest of us. You’d think he’d never picked up a newspaper in the past ten years.”
“Hmm!” Work at this, Kate! It’s worth spending time on. “His alibi about being with a partner of his that afternoon at a cottage they were converting ... were you entirely happy with it?”
Cowan’s shrug rejected the implied criticism he read into her question. “I don’t see why not. The partner—what was his name, Pascoe —confirmed everything Berger had told me. The cottage used to belong to an old girl who died a few months back, and Berger negotiated to buy the place for his brother-in-law who’d been wanting to find a house in the country for when he retires next year. It needs a lot of work doing, enlarging and so on, and Berger’s firm is handling that. Apparently the whole roofline has got to be rebuilt, and that other guy, Pascoe, is a whizz at roof design. The two of them were there all Wednesday afternoon.”
“So you were quite satisfied? No doubts at all?”
Cowan frowned. “No ... not really.”
“Come on, Nick, out with it.”
“Pascoe seemed a mite jumpy, that’s all. He’s fairly young, mid-twenties, and I put it down to nerves. I also checked with their office and got confirmation that both men were out all that afternoon. It seems that Pascoe had told the staff he’d be at the cottage, in case he was wanted.”
“Where he’d be? Not they?”
“Berger hadn’t said where he was going, just that he’d be out. But that was quite normal. He doesn’t always tell them where he’ll be.”
Kate mused. “The fact that you double-checked with their office at that early stage of the investigation suggests to me that you had a few reservations about their story.”
“It was just to do a thorough job. Is that wrong?”
She nodded at him. “Okay, Nick. Tell the switchboard to get Berger on the phone for me, will you? Or if he’s out, to ask his office have him ring me ASAP.”
Within a couple of minutes Adrian Berger was put through to her. He sounded like a busy man disturbed at a very difficult moment. Impatient ... yet worried.
“There’s a small matter concerning the death of Miss Saxon that you might be able to help us clear up, Mr. Berger. I wonder, would it be possible for you to come and see me right away? At the Incident Room in the squash courts at Streatfield Park.”
His tone was resentful. “I’ve already made a statement to one of your officers, Chief Inspector. I don’t think there’s anything I’ll be able to add to it.”
“I won’t keep you long.”
“Well, I suppose ...”
“Let’s say in half an hour, shall we?”
He murmured something Kate didn’t catch, to a colleague or secretary, presumably, then said with a point-making sigh, “Very well, in half an hour.”
He arrived ten minutes late. When he was shown into her office, Kate remembered him vividly. He was a man with a powerful aura; but the affability was lacking today. The darting eyes were looking everywhere, except directly at her. At Kate’s invitation, he sat down in an abrupt movement and crossed his legs.
“How is it you imagine I can help you, Chief Inspector?”
“For reasons I won’t bother you with, Mr. Berger, a diary belonging to Miss Saxon was found immersed in water. As a result, the paper has been virtually reduced to pulp and the writing cannot be deciphered. But we have been able to make out part of a telephone number written on the flyleaf, and this could possibly be your residential number.”
He straightened, sitting bolt upright. There was a note of sarcasm in his voice. “That’s hardly surprising, because it is my number. I jotted it down for her myself. Really, Chief Inspector, if you’d asked me about it on the phone I could have told you there and then and saved wasting all this time.”
“Why did you write your number in Miss Saxon’s diary?”
“Why?” A lock of his dark hair had fallen across his forehead, and he brushed it aside impatiently. “Because Corinne Saxon was the sort of client who expected people to be at her beck and call. My home number happens to be ex-directory, and she was annoyed when she couldn’t get hold of me one evening. I don’t like being bothered at home, but she was too good a client to upset, so I wrote the number on the flyleaf of her diary.”
“I see. You must have had a great deal of contact with Miss Saxon these past few months.”
“Almost daily,” he agreed. “What of it?”
“You will have known her better than most people. Can you think of anyone who might have killed her?”
“No, I can’t. She could be irritating, of course, as I’ve explained, because she was such a perfectionist. But she was a charming and delightful woman, so it’s impossible to think of her having any enemies.”
A smoothie this one, Kate!
“Mr. Berger, did you kill Corinne Saxon?”
He looked stunned; then his expression became contemptuous.
“Is that meant as a serious question?”
“Perfectly serious.”
Berger snorted a laugh. “If I had killed her, I’d be likely to answer yes, wouldn’t I?”
“You might be best advised to do so. Because the truth will emerge in the end, make no mistake.”
“Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you, Chief Inspector, but I didn’t kill Corinne Saxon. I couldn’t possibly have killed Corinne on Wednesday afternoon because I was elsewhere at the time. Furthermore, I had no reason to kill Corinne, and no wish to kill her. So if I’ve now answered all your questions, perhaps you’ll allow me to get on with my interrupted day.”
“By all means, Mr. Berger.”
He departed with (over-the-top?) jauntiness.
* * * *
Kate stole time from her busy schedule that afternoon to drive to Marlingford to visit her aunt in hospital. En route she stopped off to buy a bedjacket, a couple of nighties, plus a few toiletries. It distressed her to find Felix looking so pale and wan as she lay flopped back against the pillows. She was too exhausted to say more than a few words, and the deep-etched lines on her face betrayed every one of her sixty-eight years.
In the evening, Kate went again for a longer visit. This time she found the patient greatly improved. Felix was sitting up alertly and in a bossily confident mood.
“What a ridiculous fuss everyone’s making about my little problem.”
“If you’d had your little problem seen to years ago,” Kate observed dryly, “there’d have been no need for a red alert and all systems go. I’ve been thinking, Felix. Making plans. You could always come and stay with me while you’re convalescing, of course, but I thought you’d be more comfortable in your own home. So instead, I’ll come and stay with you at Stonebank Cottage for a bit.”
“You certainly will not, girl.”
“Don’t be so difficult. You can’t cope on your own. Not at first.”
“I won’t be on my own. I’ve already made other arrangements, Kate. The younger sister of one of the nurses here is going to come and stay with me for a couple of weeks. It will fit in very neatly before she starts her own training. Nice bright young girl by all accounts.”
“My God, you’re a fast worker. Barely come round from the anaesthetic and you’re making detailed plans.”
“I knew what you’d be like, girl. I refuse to be a drag on you.”
“Felix, you’ll never be a drag on me.” Kate spoke with sincere affection. “I’d have loved to come to Stonebank Cottage and cosset you for a while.”
There was a glint of tears in her aunt’s eyes at this untypical moment of emotion between them. But she blinked away such weakness and said briskly, “Well, you won’t get the chance now, will you? But here’s something you can do for me. I’m booked for the gymkhana at Iliff on Saturday, and there are a number of other dates in the next week or so that’ll have to be cancelled, too. You’ll find all the details in my book, by the phone.”
Leaving the hospital, Kate drove to Chipping Bassett and spent nearly an hour at Stonebank Cottage, checking that everything was secure, throwing out food that would go bad, collecting together a few items that Felix wanted, and telephoning to cancel her aunt’s upcoming engagements as an equestrian photographer. Then she drove on the few hundred yards to where Richard lived. Borough House was one of the numerous architectural delights of the village. Creeper-clad right up to its castellated roofline, the charming old sixteenth-century building had been converted a few years ago into eight very attractive flats. Until Kate had acquired a place of her own, she had envied Richard his spacious living quarters and mused over what she could do with the various rooms. As for Richard, so long as he had moderate comfort and someone to come in and keep the place clean, he seemed satisfied.
Parking her car in Duck Lane, she walked around to the entrance and up the flight of stairs, solid oak with wrought-iron banisters. Richard opened his front door to her ring.
“At last! I’d begun to think you weren’t coming, Kate.”
“It’s not much past nine,” she said, on the defensive. “I had to visit Felix this evening, and then she wanted me to collect some things for her from Stonebank Cottage.”
They walked together into his living room, but they both remained standing.
“How’s Felix doing?” he asked.
“Oh, getting back to normal. She’s already started bossing me around again.” Kate paused. “She’s very grateful to you, Richard, for all that you did. And so am I, of course.”
He shrugged. “For Christ’s sake, it was no more than anyone would have done.”
“You mean,” she said bitterly, “what I should have been around to do myself.”
“Oh no, spare me the guilt trip.” His stance challenged her. “Why don’t you get on with what you’ve come to say? I suppose you’re here to ask me for my alibi for when Corinne was killed?”
“I already know your alibi. You were where you always are on a Wednesday afternoon. At the Gazette, sweating blood until the last copy comes off the press.”
“So why,” Richard demanded sarcastically, “all that crap the other day about every man who’d ever had anything to do with Corinne being under suspicion?”
“I was merely explaining the police viewpoint. Personally, I never had the least suspicion about you—and you damn well ought to know that. However, it’s an academic point now. Since the time of Corinne Saxon’s death has been narrowed down to Wednesday afternoon, there’s no possible question that you could have been at the scene then.” Deliberately, Kate flopped down onto the leather Chesterfield. “Aren’t you going to offer me a cup of coffee? I could do with one.”
Richard wouldn’t relinquish his grievance so easily. “Sure you don’t want to check with my staff that I really was at the Gazette that afternoon? And then check their bank accounts to see whether I bribed them all to back up my story?”
“Oh, bollocks!”
Richard retreated to the kitchen, but Kate got up and followed him. It would be easier to talk when he was occupied with doing something, than when they were just sitting.
“The post-mortem’s thrown up something interesting about Corinne,” she said. “This is not for publication, Richard, not yet, but it seems that at some point in her life she gave birth to a child.”
Kettle in hand, he shot her a furious glance. “Well, it certainly wasn’t mine.”
“I didn’t imagine it was. But—think about it—did Corinne ever give you any hint that she’d once had a pregnancy? I mean, either just recently, or when you knew her way back?”
“Never. Does it matter?”
“As it happens, yes it does. For one thing, it’s odds on that the child is still alive, somewhere.”
“Well, I can’t help you. How about her ex? Could it have been his?”
“I’m pretty certain it wasn’t—judging from his shocked reaction. He told me he’d always longed for children, but Corinne was adamantly against it. The evidence suggests that the birth took place some time ago, so if it wasn’t while she was married, it must have been before that. I’m trying to piece together a picture of her life, Richard. These past few weeks, did she talk to you about the old days at all? Did she refer to people she’d kept in touch with since that time?”
He gave an impatient sigh. “Listen, since Corinne turned up at Streatfield Park we only had a couple of meals together and the odd few drinks. Mostly, our conversation was about the sort of publicity she wanted me to give the hotel in the Gazette as quid pro quo for the ad space she was taking in the paper.”
“You must have reminisced, brought back a few sweet memories?” What the hell line of questioning is this, Kate?
Richard fitted a filter paper in the cone, spooned in coffee and dribbled water from the kettle. He didn’t answer until he’d put the kettle down again.
“You seem to think that our little caper way back was the great passion of both our lives. For God’s sake, Kate, back then I was just your average horny young guy who spent most of his waking hours thinking about sex and how I could manage to lay a girl that night. When Corinne drifted into my life, it was like winning the pools. Better than. She was the sexiest creature I’d ever encountered, and she made it clear she had the hots for me, too. The next few weeks are like a hazy dream in my mind—even at the time it was somewhat hazy. Then suddenly the magic was all gone. We dragged things out for a bit ... but at that sort of age there’s nothing colder than yesterday’s love-affair. While it was still going on, though, we didn’t waste time discussing our mutual backgrounds.”
Kate felt a lot more cheerful. But she wasn’t through yet. “I got an impression that Corinne’s recollection was a little more vivid.”
“What makes you say that?”
She pulled a face at him. “Big Dick.”
“Oh,” he said, looking a bit sheepish. “Well ...”
“You may well give me ‘well.’ You were as fatuously pleased with yourself the other week as you must have been when she first coined the epithet. Men!”
Richard’s temper, too, had markedly improved. He was grinning. The aroma of coffee, as he poured it out and carried two mugs through to the living room, was delicious.
“Kate, do we have to talk about Corinne?”
“Yes,” she said, following him. “We do.”
“But there’s so little I can tell you. Honestly.”
“Oh, come on. You two must have knocked off for a breather every now and then. You must have talked about something.”
“I’ve already told you the few things I know.”
“Who did she mix with in those days?”
“It was more a matter of who she let mix with her. A top model is way up in the popularity stakes.”
“Anyone special? Apart from yourself?”
“There were always men hanging around her. She used to scoff to me about them, the way they kept trying it on. Corinne was a person who liked to choose her friends for herself.”
“And her lovers?”
“And her lovers. Me, I just got lucky. I always realised that.”
“So you don’t think there’d be anybody from that era who could still be harbouring a grievance?”
“Enough to kill her? God, no. It’s all ancient history, Kate—for all of them as much as for me, I’m sure.”
“What about girlfriends? Were there any other models around when you knew Corinne?”
“Several. They were a pretty bitchy lot with each other. There was one, I recall, Corinne seemed quite pally with. She hadn’t made the big time like Corinne, which perhaps explains it.”
“What was her name?”
“Search me. No, hang on, it was Mitzi, I think.”
“Last name?”
“No idea. I doubt if I ever knew it.”
“Oh well, I expect we can track her down, if need be.” Kate drank the last of her coffee. “You haven’t been a lot of help, Richard. If you really can’t think of anything else about Corinne, I’d better be moving.” She stood up.
Richard stood up.
“Kate, don’t go.”
The barriers suddenly came down with a crash. “I mustn’t be late,” she temporised. “It’s going to be another heavy day tomorrow.”
“No problem. I’ll set the alarm nice and early. And I’ll boil you an egg for your breakfast.”
“Really?” She gave a slow smile. “Now that’s an offer I can’t refuse.”
“There’s more.”
“What? Is there no end to your mad generosity?”
Richard reached out for her, put his arms around her, and the jokery stopped.
* * * *
Sometime in the wee small hours of the night, Kate drifted awake. Beside her, Richard was breathing gently, his breath fanning her hair. His flesh, where they touched, felt wonderfully warm. Outside, it was raining, the steady pattering on the window panes increasing her sense of closeness to him.
Contentedly, she let her mind wander. Stupid to have gone all uptight about Richard’s once-upon-a-time relationship with Corinne Saxon. For God’s sake, Corinne would have been just one in a whole string of women in his early life, and she didn’t feel jealous about the rest of them.
Big Dick! Maybe, Kate thought with an inward grin, Corinne made a habit of handing out that sort of sexual flattery to her lovers. Andy? Andy? She wouldn’t mind betting that Arliss had suppressed the first half of his nickname; it would have been Randy Andy for sure. Otherwise, why home in on his middle name? How about Ram? Well, Ram by itself could be construed as a sexy nickname. But the HOLMES computer had failed to make a productive link between Ram and one of the names on their suspect list.
Corinne must have had a reason for calling the man Ram, dammit. A connection of some sort, however vague, that might have grabbed her fancy. Corinne was an ex-model ... still a glamorous woman ... she was quick-witted ... she was half-French. Kate’s thoughts lingered there. French. Some connection between the man’s name and a French word?
Methodically, she considered, clicking through the suspect list one at a time like a slide projector. At Adrian Berger, she stopped, her mind sizzling. Berger had a French shape to it ... could easily be pronounced as a French word. Bear-zhay. But what the hell would it mean?
Knowing she wouldn’t get back to sleep again until this problem was solved, she jogged Richard awake. As he came to he reached out for her, misreading her intention. But Kate disentangled herself and rolled away from him, leaning out to switch on the bedside light.
“Richard, do you have a French dictionary?” “What?”
“A French dictionary. I need to look something up.”
He flopped back on the pillows, muttering to himself. Then he said, “This reminds me of Tristram Shandy.”
“Oh?” Her mind was distrait. “What are you on about?”
“It was at just such an inappropriate moment that the mother asked the father if he’d remembered to wind the clock before coming up to bed. He retorted ... let me get it right, ‘Did ever a woman since the creation of the world interrupt a man with such a silly question.’ ”
Kate glared at him. “Richard, this is important. I’m not in the mood for literary allusions. Have you got a French dictionary?”
“Of course.”
“Then kindly fetch it for me.”
With an enormous protesting sigh, he slid out of bed and disappeared naked into the next room. A minute later he was back.
“Here you are. I’m agog to know what can be so momentous that it can’t wait till morning.”
Kate, riffling through the pages, found the entry she was looking for. Berger (substantive, masculine)—Shepherd. Shepherd ... sheep ... ram. Yes, a logical train of thought. She read on. Berger also meant Swain, Lover. My God, how deliciously apt! As Kate closed the book with a snap, elation was rippling through her.
“Aren’t I going to get an explanation?” Richard demanded grumpily.
“Not now. And I apologise for the interruption. Where were we?”