26

The hallway to Colin’s office was as long as an airport runway, giving me lots of time to rehearse what I wanted to ask him. Well, it would have given me lots of time if not for the chirpy intern or PA or whatever at my side who never stopped talking for a moment.

Colin stood up politely as I entered and ushered me to a plush seating area across from his desk. The intern’s almost imperceptible lift of eyebrows was met with a small shake of his head. Refreshments were not to be offered. I was to say my piece quickly and leave.

“This is a rare pleasure,” he said, smiling and oozing bonhomie. His veneers made his teeth look four times their normal size. “To see such a beautiful woman in my office.” The intern smirked a farewell and walked out, closing the door sharply behind him. No doubt he’d heard this hooey many times before. “To what do I owe this honor?”

I opted to speak bluntly. “I am here about Anna Monroe,” I said, watching for his reaction. Nothing hostile in my demeanor, just a look of innocent, wide-eyed curiosity.

“Anna Monroe,” he repeated. “You’re not—tell me you’re not the young woman who found her body that terrible day? I hadn’t connected the name.”

“I’m afraid I am. That’s why I’m here. The suspicion in this kind of case—well, you can imagine. It sort of spreads. In addition to losing a friend and neighbor, I’ve got the police looking very closely at me. It’s most uncomfortable.”

“I can see why it would be. I don’t, however, see how I can help you with that. Just answer all their questions. They’ll go away eventually once they see they’re wasting time talking to you.”

“That isn’t always how it works back in my country.”

“Well, it’s how it works here, I do assure you.”

Before he could add “now if there’s nothing else, I’m terribly busy,” I said, “As I mentioned, I was a friend of Anna’s. She confided in me, you see.” This was a slight exaggeration, to say the least, but it worked. He got very, very still, his expression frozen, and the look on his face was one of polite inquiry. But I thought I could smell fear beneath his citrusy aftershave.

“Ye-e-s-s-s?” he said.

“Yes.” I went for it now. “She told me you and she were having an affair.”

His hand shot out to the intercom on his desk. For a second I thought he might call in guards to haul me away. A wiser, or at least a more innocent, man might have done so. But when he said, “Hold my calls, please, Alice,” I knew I’d scored. His face now carried a curdled look.

“It’s not blackmail, if that’s what you’re thinking,” I said quickly. “Nothing remotely like that.”

“What is it you want?” The geniality, so second nature to the political beast, had completely vanished now. I was seeing the face behind the mask, the face of a man who had risen to such giddy heights of power by playing hardball. I didn’t know about Anna—she clearly felt differently—but I would have given him a wide berth. But it’s not news that power is an aphrodisiac.

“I want information, that’s all.”

“What is this? You’re not with the police. I don’t have to talk to you.” He might have added “you weren’t even born here,” and looked like he was thinking of doing so, then thought better of it. I was a constituent, just one with a grating accent.

“Information,” he said, winding down and allowing a hint of sarcasm to creep into his voice. The silly little housewife wanting information, that was me. “Go on.” He could barely get out the words through his gritted, enameled teeth.

I was still making it up as I went, and I decided that playing to his ego was the way to go.

“She spoke very highly of you. She did nothing but sing your praises, really.”

“Anna? Now you do surprise me. That’s very flattering, but I still don’t see h—”

“She told me she was meeting someone that morning.”

“Well, it wasn’t me.”

“She didn’t say it was. That’s why I’m here. The police are talking to me, as I mentioned, asking me questions. I have to tell them what I know, obviously. Everything I know. But before I do that … you see, I’m not interested in tossing anyone into it. Anyone innocent, I mean. The problem with murder is it drags everyone down, even people who don’t really deserve to be dragged down. You do see?”

I was doing my best Miss Marple imitation at this point, dithery and twittery as if I didn’t know what I was about. I was even clutching my handbag in my lap with both hands.

“I agree with what you say but I don’t see what I can do about it. If Anna was meeting anyone, it wasn’t me. In fact, I can prove it.”

“You have an alibi?”

“What a dreadful term. But yes, as a matter of fact, I do.”

“That could make all the difference,” I said. “A solid alibi. Like mine—I was seen by a dozen people walking up the path that morning, walking toward where Anna already lay.” “Dozen people” was another slight exaggeration, but I felt it might make him unbend a bit to hear my impeccable bona fides. “I might not feel obliged to tell all I know, you see, if I were certain you couldn’t possibly be involved.” Here I sort of convulsed into some more Jane Marple twinkle.

I may have overdone it a bit. He studied me, never taking his eyes from my face. My gaze roamed about the room, that bastion of privilege. The dark paneling, the gold-leaf frames holding historic faces I didn’t recognize, and scenes of historic wars—ditto. I was affecting a wait-all-day nonchalance I didn’t feel. This was one dangerous guy and I was playing a treacherous game. I didn’t think he’d snuff me out or anything, pull a gun out of the bottom drawer and let me have it. That would really screw up his chances for re-election. But he might tamper with my ability to stay in the UK. I was legally married to a British citizen but I had the fleeting thought Colin might drum up drug or terrorism charges or something else undesirable that could get me deported if not thrown in jail first. God only knew what kind of connections someone like this had.

But I was here to play the game and play it I would. I really did want to know exactly where he was at the time Anna was killed, and when. Once he told me, I’d go away.

“It’s none of your business,” he said.

“I know that,” I replied, waiting as the seconds passed.

“Cow,” he muttered, almost under his breath.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Anna. She was nothing but a jumped-up, overreaching cow. I was supposed to give up everything”—and here, he swept his arm out to encompass the tables with the inlaid designs, the sofa cushions embroidered by the tiny fingers of Chinese orphans, the window dressings that made the whole place look like the setting for a regency play—“for some woman from Cardiff with ambitions high above her station?”

“Bristol,” I corrected automatically. His sweep did not, I noticed, include the photo of the washed-out wife and the two pasty-faced children.

Ambitions high above her station? Ambition summed up Anna, all right, overreaching and all the rest of it, including cow, but what century were we living in? This was rich, anyway, coming from a man who had run for office on a platform that played up his vague and likely imaginary working-class roots. It was another case for Sigmund Freud, but right now I had to get what I wanted from him before he went into a full-tilt panic.

“Alibi?” I repeated mildly, like a gentle suggestion.

“I was visiting a school,” he said, biting off each syllable. Temper, temper. “As it happens.”

“That’s nice,” I said. “I didn’t know schools opened that early around here. It explains so much, though. Bright little buggers, aren’t they? Quoting Shakespeare while they’re practically still in nappies.”

“I wanted to be there when it opened.”

I didn’t have to ask what school. Or even what time. This was public information, verifiable. Just like the royals, these guys had a schedule, and their every move was documented so the taxpayers could see how their money was being spent.

“Wonderful,” I said. “That’s all I need to know then! I won’t trouble you further.”

“Good. See that you don’t.”

I got up to leave and when I reached the door, I turned around.

“One more question,” I said. Now I was Columbo. “Did you drive yourself? To the school?”

From the look on his face it was clear he had, which meant he had no witnesses to his every movement. He said no more, just continued to glower. If anything, he turned a brighter shade of red.

“Okay,” I said. “Well, I have to be off.”

“Sit down,” he said.

“Sorry. No.”

And I left, closing the door quietly behind.

Well, that was future invitations to fundraisers for Colin Livingstone, MP, stuffed, which was fine with me. I fairly danced down the corridors of power on my way to Westminster Underground.

For Colin Livingstone, MP, had no real alibi. I was a little surprised someone at his level did not have a car and driver at his disposal, but he would surely have said so if that were the case. I decided to treat myself to lunch at a nearby bistro while I did a little research on the school where Colin claimed to have been. I pulled up his public diary for the day on my mobile, and it was all there: he had been scheduled to appear at St. Hildegarde’s School for Girls and cut the ribbon on their new gymnasium at nine thirty that morning. As an alibi it was crap. The school was about ten miles away from Weycombe, no distance at all, so his being there did nothing to prove his innocence. It was a straight shot up the motorway for most of the way, and even the curvy bits of road at either end wouldn’t add that much to his time. I made a mental note to drive out there and see for myself, maybe even talk with the headmistress if I could get near her, but Colin had had acres of time to do away with Anna and not be noticeably late for his ribbon-cutting duties. He was the perfect suspect—if it turned out I needed one.

I did another search and saw the school opened at eight thirty. So “I wanted to be there when it opened” didn’t add up. What did he do for an hour? Hang upside down on the jungle gym? It was a crazy lie to tell, in fact. The kind of lie a habitual liar might throw out there, never thinking anyone would check up.

The only questions that remained for me were when, how—and whether—to let Sergeant Milo know.