“Rebuilt. Had to be. The old place was completely gutted. Scuttlebutt has it that it sold for about a million when it was rebuilt.” She killed the engine and climbed out of the car. “Enough about Vaughan’s old place. Let’s concentrate on the doctor, huh?”

  She led the way along the short, paved drive, admiring the polish of Finch’s Volvo, and rang the doorbell.

  There was a brief delay before Finch opened the door.

  He was dressed casually in a short-sleeved, check-patterned shirt and denims and a pair of trainers. From within came the sound of pounding, heavy metal music and the noise of family argument.

  Gemma showed her warrant card. “Detective Inspector Craddock, Sanford CID, sir. This is DI Riley, seconded from Cambridge. It is Mr Finch, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. Is there a problem?”

  “We need a few words, sir, but first, have you been told about Emily Paxton?”

  With an easy smile, he pulled the door to, shutting out the noise. “Sorry. Bloody teenagers.” His brow knitted. “Now, what about Emily?”

  It was a task Gemma usually found difficult. This time she blurted it out. “I’m sorry to have to tell you that she was found dead early this morning. Murdered.”

  His colour drained. “What? I… Is this some kind of… No. Even the police wouldn’t send CID as a joke, would they?”

  “No joke, Mr Finch,” Howard said. “And we need to talk to you at some length. Is your lady wife at home?”

  “Well, yes…” Finch trailed off.

  “I would suggest, sir, it might be advantageous if you came to the station.”

  There was sufficient inflection in Gemma’s tones to indicate their suspicion of Finch’s involvement with Emily, and he obviously picked it up. He maintained his air of shock and puzzlement. “I, er, I’m sorry, I don’t see what this has to do with me. I’m her employer… well, one of. And I’ve been home here since about ten fifteen last night. I certainly didn’t murder her.”

  “We have information at your dealings with Ms Paxton were more than employer-employee, sir, and we will need a formal statement from you.” Gemma smiled mock-sweetly. “Shall we say eleven o’clock at the police station? You’re welcome to bring your solicitor along.”

  The two detectives turned to leave.

  Gemma stopped and turned to face him again. “Oh, and just so we can save a little time and get all the lies and excuses out of the way, we have enough body fluids from the mattress to give us your DNA fingerprint.”

  ***

  An hour later, the four members of the consortium and their legal advisor, Galbraith, met in the small conference room at Squire’s Lodge.

  With his pen held upright, Finch rapped it on the laminate top of the table.

  The action brought immediate silence and the other four people at the table concentrated upon him.

  “I don’t have long. I have to be at the police station by eleven. I’m being called to account for my movements last night because I was, er, with Emily earlier.” Finch paused to let the admission sink in. Theoretically, none of them knew of his affair with Emily. In practice, they were probably all aware of it. “It’s likely that the police will bring up other matters, especially after the death of Rita Riley.”

  Opposite him, Victor and Christine Langley, both consultant surgeons, married to each other for longer than Finch cared to remember, were the most worried of the group. Finch could understand that. A good deal of their money was tied up in the consortium, and like himself, their reputation was such that they were wary of anything that might taint it.

  Alongside Finch, Paul Villiers, an accountant, and a man who had been appointed company secretary, was less concerned with the practice of having residents sign over their estates than the murder of Emily Paxton, and it caused Finch to wonder if Villiers had shared Emily’s bed too.

  Galbraith, not a member of the consortium, but its legal advisor, appeared totally unconcerned and it was to him that Finch put a query.

  “Cyril, can I ask you to clarify the legal position regarding the transfer of these properties to the consortium?”

  Galbraith fussed with his pipe, packing tobacco into it. “It’s absolutely above board. There was never any question of its legality.” Satisfied with the pipe bowl, he jammed the stem between his teeth, took out a box of matches, struck one and, applying it to the bowl, sucked on it until he had an adequate glow of burning tobacco and wisps of smoke rising to the ceiling. “We have assurances that the residents concerned were of sound mind, and fully aware of what they were doing.” He removed the pipe from his mouth and pointed the stem at each of them in turn. “Those assurances came from you people, the medics. Assuming you were happy with your diagnoses, then we have nothing to worry about.”

  “Nothing to worry about?” Villiers almost exploded. “Emily has been murdered, you fool.”

  Finch called the accountant to order. “Calm down, Paul. There’s no need to get personal.”

  Galbraith picked up the debate. “And the killing of Emily Paxton is the only thing the police can question any of you on, unless they have evidence linking her death to the transfer of estates.”

  Finch was not so sanguine. “One of the detectives who visited me this morning was Howard Riley, Rita’s son.”

  “He’s from Cambridge. He has no jurisdiction in Sanford.” Galbraith was quite confident on the matter. “I’ll come with you, and I’ll handle the police. For the rest of you, I would advise you simply get on with your lives. None of you have done anything wrong, and although the police may have some routine questions for you, they can have nothing to do with business.”

  Chapter Eight

  It was a couple of minutes after eleven when Gemma and Howard faced Finch and Galbraith in one of the station’s cramped interview rooms.

  While Finch had elected to attend in the same casual wear he had on at home, Galbraith was formally dressed in his pinstripe and tie, and the moment everyone had been identified for the recording, the solicitor went straight on the attack.

  “I want it on record that my client objects to the presence of Detective Inspector Riley.”

  “On what grounds, Mr Galbraith?” Gemma asked.

  “Firstly, he has no jurisdiction in Sanford, and secondly, he was at my office yesterday accusing my clients of underhand dealings with regard to the estate of his late mother.”

  Gemma looked to Howard who took up the challenge.

  “At the request of Chief Superintendent Oughton, I have been formally seconded to Sanford CID for the case in question. I do, therefore, have jurisdiction in this matter. As to the latter point, my queries regarding Squire’s Lodge Care Home constitute a civil matter, not criminal, and although there may be questions relating to it, they will be posed by my colleague, Detective Inspector Craddock, who is also the Senior Investigating Officer in the present inquiry. Mr Finch, before we go any further, have you been made aware of the interview between your solicitor and myself yesterday?”

  Finch cleared his throat. “Yes. Yes, I have. And I might say—”

  “Don’t say anything, sir,” Gemma interrupted. “At the moment, it is not germane to our inquiry. We are concerned purely with the death of Emily Paxton, and we need to clarify your relationship with her.”

  “I had nothing to do with it.”

  “No one is accusing you, sir. You are a suspect. No more. If you can answer our questions and we can verify your answers, then you will be eliminated from the inquiry.”

  Finch shrugged. “Okay.”

  Gemma again nodded to Howard, who read from the report in front of him.

  “A neighbour on his way to work found the body of Emily Paxton inside her open doorway at about six o’clock this morning. She had been killed by a single wound to the left side of her neck. Our medical examiner says the wound was probably caused by a machete-like implement which severed the jugular vein. Death was not instantaneous. It would have taken between two and five minutes.”

  “She would have lost consciousness very quickly.” Finch smiled bleakly. “Trust me, I’m a doctor. I know about these things. She’d have been out of it in a matter of twenty seconds.”

  The interjection served only to irritate the two detectives.

  “Can you verify your whereabouts between, say, eleven o’clock last night and five this morning?” Gemma asked.

  “I was at home.”

  “I asked whether you can verify it, Mr Finch?”

  “Yes, of course. My wife will tell you.”

  Howard took up the interrogation. “You need to think carefully about your answer to the next question, sir. Were you in a sexual relationship with Ms Paxton?”

  Galbraith protested. “You are prying into areas of my client’s private life which have no bearing on your investigation.”

  “It is up to the police to decide what does and does not have any bearing on the inquiry, Mr Galbraith. As an experienced lawyer, you should be aware that most murders are committed by someone known to the victim. In this case, we have testimony that Mr Finch and Ms Paxton were involved—”

  “Testimony?” Finch snorted. “You mean gossip. The grapevine at Squire’s Lodge.”

  Gemma came back in. “Not only gossip. As I indicated earlier, we have body fluids taken from the mattress. We will require a swab from you for analysis. If you deny your, er, involvement with Ms Paxton and the result of our analyses confirm the opposite, we will have to consider just how many other areas you’re prepared to lie about.” She glowered at the solicitor. “And before Mr Galbraith complains, you cannot refuse fingerprinting or DNA swabs. My advice to you, Mr Finch, is tell us the truth now to save any embarrassment later.”

  Silence fell over the room while Finch, obviously annoyed, considered his position. At length he said, “All right, so yes. Emily and I had an ad hoc relationship. It was sex. Nothing more. And it wasn’t a regular thing. Just when the two of us felt like it.”

  Reaching down beside her seat, Gemma brought up the evidence bag containing Emily’s diary. “And last night was one of those when you both ‘just felt like it’?”

  Finch nodded. “Yes.”

  “Is your wife aware of it?” Howard asked.

  “Good lord, no.” Finch’s changeable features delivered a half-apologetic smile. “Oh, come on. We’re all men of the world…” His eye fell on Gemma who scowled back.

  “I’m not. I’m not even a man.” She placed the journal on the table. “Mr Finch, this is Emily’s personal diary. According to the entries, your, er, ad hoc relationship, was a good deal more regular than you suggest.” She consulted her notes. “April, you met eight times, in May, it was eleven, in June—”

  “Yes, yes, all right. You don’t need to labour the point. So I saw her regularly. She gave me something my wife doesn’t. Excitement. Something different. You know?”

  “No, I don’t.” Gemma’s scowl transmitted her disapproval.

  Howard backed her up. “I’m unmarried so I really wouldn’t know. I do wonder, sir, was Ms Paxton pressuring you for more than just sex?”

  “No. She—”

  Pressing on, Howard cut Finch off. “You see, we’re fairly certain that Emily knew her killer. There was no sign of a struggle, and we believe she opened the door to him because she knew who it was. Speculating on a motive, we wonder whether a lover, for example, might decide he’s had enough of her, especially if she was demanding more than just the occasional romp. You see what I mean?”

  “Yes, I do, and you’re wrong.” Finch leaned forward to hammer home his point. “I left Emily at just after ten last night. I went straight home and got there just after ten fifteen. I didn’t leave the house again until this morning to come down here and answer these stupid, and frankly, invasive questions.”

  The interrogative reins passed back to Gemma. “A woman is dead, Mr Finch. Brutally murdered. You were one of the last people to see her alive. Possibly the last—”

  “Aside from her killer.”

  “That has yet to be decided. For now, we need as much information as we can get from you and others so we can build up a picture of what happened. If you consider that invasive, then I’m sorry. That’s the way it is.” Gemma slammed shut her folder and stood up. “I’ll get the swabs so we can take a sample. After that, you can go, but it doesn’t end here.”

  As she and Howard prepared to leave, Finch called them back. “Just a minute.”

  They faced him.

  “You say Emily knew her killer?”

  Gemma agreed. “That’s the way it looks, yes.”

  “Then check on someone with a real motive for killing her. Nadia Gaunt. Well, she calls herself Gaunt. Her real name is Nadia Verenich. Russian girl, employed as a domestic at Squire’s Lodge.”

  “And why should we check on her?” Howard asked.

  “Emily fired her yesterday.” Finch stared at Howard. “For talking to those women you brought to the home.”

  Howard returned to the table. “On that same issue, the conversation between your domestic, my Aunt Sheila and her friend, Mrs Jump, has prompted a second inquiry by Sanford CID. Because I have a personal interest in the matter, I cannot take any professional part in that investigation. The local police are in the process of applying for a warrant to access all records at Squire’s Lodge. I have asked for a post mortem to be carried out on my mother to determine her cause of death and whether her prescribed medications were given at the appropriate times. I will also be challenging her will.”

  Finch shrugged again. “Do what you like, Inspector. You’ll find nothing amiss.”

  ***

  “What would Joe have done?”

  Brenda posed the question as she drove them into the grounds of Squire’s Lodge.

  “We’re not Joe,” Sheila replied.

  Brenda swung her Peugeot into a parking space by the entrance, and switched the engine off. Taking the key from the ignition, she faced her best friend. “That’s true. We’re tougher than he ever was.”

  Sheila giggled girlishly as she climbed out of the car. “What I mean is, Joe knew exactly which questions to ask. I’m not sure that we do.”

  “Then we’ll play it by ear.” Blipping the remote to lock the car Brenda led the way into the building.

  The place was deadly quiet. Where they might have expected some activity, there was none, and there was not a soul to be seen. Sheila pressed the buzzer on the reception desk. From somewhere along the corridor came the sound of a door opening and then closing, and a moment later one of the care assistants appeared ambling laconically towards them.

  “Good afternoon. I’m Imogen, senior care assistant. Can I ask, how did you get in?”

  Brenda pointed back the way they had come. “The front door was wide open.”

  Imogen tutted. “We’re short of staff.” She unhooked a walkie-talkie from her belt and spoke into it, giving her colleagues orders to check that all residents were accounted for and none had left the house. Hanging the radio back on her belt, she asked, “So, how can I help you?”

  Sheila put on her most pleasant smile. “I’m Mrs Riley and this is Mrs Jump. We wondered, is Ms Paxton on duty?”

  Imogen’s face fell. There was a noticeable pause before she spoke and when she did it was in the cautious tones of one preparing to deliver bad news. “Are you friends of hers?”

  “We’ve met her. Just yesterday, as a matter of fact, and we need to speak to her.”

  “I, er, I’m sorry. She’s no longer with us.”

  The admission took both women by surprise.

  “What?” Brenda demanded. “She’s been fired?”

  “Oh… Look… I’m sorry. I really can’t say anything more. Was it her you particularly wanted to see?”

  It was Sheila who responded this time, electing for total honesty. “We have a complaint against one of your employees. Your gardener. We believe his name is Chad.”

  “He’s a law unto himself, that one.” Imogen sniffed disdainfully. “He won’t be in again until Monday. And because of this business with Emily, you’ll probably have to put your complaint in writing.”

  Brenda speared her with a look of sheer malevolence. “If he was stalking you, would you want to prat about putting it in writing?”

  Imogen blushed. “Oh. I see what you mean.” She frowned. “Unusual for him. I mean, I know he can be a bit of a grump, but he’s usually harmless enough. Are you sure you’ve got the right man?”

  “We’re sure,” Brenda retorted. “If Paxton’s no longer with you, who do we speak to?”

  Imogen was on the verge of breaking down. Tears began to well in her eyes, and as she spoke her voice was trembling. “I’m not sure if I’m supposed to tell you this… Emily is dead.”

  The announcement stunned Sheila and Brenda into shocked silence.

  “According to the police she was murdered sometime last night. We’re expecting them back at any time to start questioning the staff. We’re all suspects.” She dug into her pocket and came out with a tissue. Dabbing her eyes, she began to ramble. “I mean, it’s daft. She wasn’t popular, but none of us would do anything to harm her. Still, I suppose they’ve got to talk to everyone.”

  Sheila’s attitude had changed the moment she learned of Emily’s death. In the face of Imogen’s obvious distress, her sympathies, generated over years of working as a school secretary and listening to the woes of staff and children alike, came out.

  “They’ll just be trying to eliminate you all from their enquiries. I’m sure they don’t suspect any of you. It’s nothing to worry about.”

  Brenda was more concerned with their immediate mission. “Can you tell us where Chad lives?”

  Imogen shook her head. “Even if I knew, I couldn’t tell you. We’re red hot on resident and staff confidentiality here.” She thought for a moment. “All I can tell you is he has a flat or a bedsit somewhere off Leeds Road.”

  “Doesn’t narrow it down much. Thanks for your help.”

  Imogen showed them to door, now locked, let them out, and Brenda led the way into the heavy, overcast afternoon.

  Standing by her car, waiting for the door to unlock, Sheila asked, “Where do we go from here?”

 

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