Murder... Now and Then, page 26
Bannister was always going up there to kill him. He didn’t fall for that line that Anna gave him about the flat being empty; he knew Holyoak was up there with someone. He picked up the knife on his way through the kitchen. But he had no quarrel with whoever the woman was, so she fled, and he didn’t try to stop her, even though she was a witness. If so, where was she? Why hadn’t she come forward? Because of this reputation that she had to preserve? Was Bannister so certain that she wouldn’t come forward that he could afford to let her go?
Besides, according to the camera that took in the outside door to the flat, Holyoak had had no visitor at all – not one that came in by that door, at any rate. And none of that explained why someone closed the wardrobe door after the murder. That surely had to be so that no one would know that it had ever been open. He couldn’t really imagine someone neatly closing the door after she had just stabbed someone to death and retrieved her clothes from it. If this hypothetical person was an automatic door closer, she would have closed it in the first place, and it wouldn’t have been ajar during the murder. Another little puzzle.
They had found two sets of keys to the flat in Holyoak’s possession and Anna had to be tackled about that; if she had keys, her insistence that she was not Holyoak’s mistress would seem a little unlikely, but Lloyd still felt that he wasn’t the one to do the tackling.
It was almost ten o’clock when Lloyd arrived back in Stansfield; Tom Finch was wading through the private investigators’ reports that Holyoak had received on Catherine all those years ago when she had run away from home.
‘Any joy?’ asked Lloyd.
‘Not yet, sir. She’s been traced, and they’re keeping an eye on her.’ He looked up. ‘Daily,’ he said. ‘I’ll let you know the next thrilling instalment when I get to it.’
Clearly, the frequency of the reports was Lloyd’s fault. He smiled. ‘Have we had an answer from Holyoak’s secretary about keys to the penthouse?’ he asked.
‘Not yet, sir.’
‘You can leave these for the moment,’ Lloyd said. ‘I want you to have another word with Miss Worthing.’
He told Finch the nature of the word, and went into his own office, where Judy had left him the files on the Scott murder. He flicked through the statements, door-to-door enquiry forms, progress reports, then took his glasses from their pouch and settled down to do some serious reading.
Mrs Scott had begun to tire of her husband’s excursions beyond his own bedroom, it appeared. She had told a friend that her husband was having an affair – she had been very distressed, according to the friend, who was, of course, Zelda Driver. Mrs Scott had told Zelda that her husband had always been unfaithful, practically from the honeymoon onward, and she had grown to accept it. The variety was something that he needed, and he was, in all other respects, a model husband.
Lloyd looked up, and thought about that. He wasn’t a wife-beater, then. And seemed to have been fortunate enough to find not one, but two wives who were prepared to put up with his infidelity. So why did he turn on his present wife on Wednesday? What truth had he tried to elicit from her with violence? Did he succeed?
He carried on reading Zelda’s evidence, which would have been inadmissible if they had ever brought it to court anyway. This time, it seemed, things had been different. Scott’s extramarital affairs had never before altered his attitude to his wife, but this one had. She had taxed him with it, and he had denied having an affair at all. Then he had suggested the move to Stansfield, and she had hoped everything would be all right. But it had still been going on; he had even stopped sleeping with his wife.
Lloyd felt his heart give a dip of guilt when he read that; it struck a little too close to home for comfort. Apart from the marriage-long infidelity, of which he had not been guilty, it read like the history of his own marriage, including the move to Stansfield which was supposed to make everything better. And the disinclination to share a bed with Barbara, brought about not by distaste, but the guilty knowledge that he wanted her to be someone else.
Would Scott have felt guilty, given his track record? Yes, Lloyd supposed, if he had fallen for Catherine, as opposed to amusing himself with her. And Catherine was sixteen years old when he met her, of course, which would only add to the problem. But surely divorce would have been a reasonable, if unhappy, solution? It was what Lloyd had done, in the end.
He checked back to see if religion had played any part; was divorce out of the question for one of them? Apparently not. So why kill her? Scott had married Catherine less than six months later, much to the glee of the press. A divorce wouldn’t have allowed remarriage that soon, but there seemed to be no reason for their haste other than that there was nothing to stop them.
Mrs Scott, it seemed, had been uttering threats that very evening, at the top of her voice. It had been a warm evening; people had had their windows open, and the neighbours had heard her saying she could and would make trouble.
That puzzled him a little, but for the moment, he was just familiarizing himself with the investigation.
The election campaigners had been around, ensuring that the faithful went to vote, and that those less able got a lift to the polling station. It was thanks to a mistake being made at the Conservative Party campaign headquarters that they had been able to narrow down the time of death to between five forty-five and seven o’clock, because Mrs Scott had been alive and well when she had been canvassed at five forty-five, and the woman across the road had found her at a few minutes after seven.
But that lot of campaigners shouldn’t have been there at all; the road had already been done earlier, by a team led by none other than Dr Charles Rule. No one on the first team had called on Mrs Scott; Rule had told them not to bother, as she was a committed socialist. Two of that team heard the row as they knocked on the doors either side; it had still been going on as the team moved on to its next target area.
Everyone on both campaign teams had been questioned, especially Charles Rule, because he knew Valerie Scott, and the poor woman from the second wave who had claimed to have spoken to her – indeed, to have been given a lecture on social inequality by her. She had been interviewed three times, until it was finally accepted that she really didn’t know Mrs Scott, and unless she was a homicidal maniac in her spare time, had had no reason whatever to kill her.
The unfortunate lady who lived across the road, and who had discovered the body, had received similar treatment before being crossed off the list.
Then, the interesting statement. Catherine Barnes, aged seventeen, who said that she had been with Max Scott the evening before at six forty-five, in London. It took easily an hour and a half to drive from Stansfield to London, therefore if it was true, Max Scott could not have killed his wife. Every reason to doubt it and no reason to doubt it, Lloyd thought. Every reason because she was clearly in love with Scott and would have sworn anything if it got him off the hook, and no reason because obviously the affair had still been going on, and the chances were that that was where he had been, using the desire to exercise his democratic rights as an excuse. And no one had been able to come up with any reason at all why his wife should have had to die to accommodate his new love.
Mounds and mounds of paperwork, of painstaking evidence gathering; hours of interviews, the ever-widening net taking in known criminals, conmen, rapists … but she hadn’t been sexually assaulted, conmen didn’t strangle their victims as a rule, and nothing had been taken or even disturbed in the house.
Back to Scott. Who was so conveniently in London at the time, whose little girlfriend had equally conveniently and apparently coincidentally turned up next morning to furnish him with an alibi. No forensic evidence worth talking about, no sightings of Scott’s car, or of him himself, no mysterious visitors. And there had been, of course, many more people abroad than would be normal for a Thursday evening in that area of Stansfield as they went to vote.
Lloyd knew the area well, and it was composed of middle-income Tory voters – with the exception, it would appear, of Mrs Scott – in a quiet street with net curtains from behind which people took a great deal of notice of their neighbours’ comings and goings. On election night it would have been much much easier for a stranger to knock on someone’s door unnoticed by the neighbours. But why would a stranger have killed her?
The husband was always favourite in any domestic murder, and Lloyd could see why, as the weeks had turned into months, Scott had been brought in for questioning over and over again. His statements ranged from the original one in which he had gone to London to vote and had thought about going to a prostitute to one in which he stated that he had spent the crucial time with Catherine. He had denied firmly any suggestion that he had been having an affair with her, or that she was the one about whom his wife had become so agitated, but had declined to furnish the police with any other avenue to pursue.
Lloyd took off his glasses, rubbed his eyes, and closed the files. Election night, he thought. And here they were again, with their rosettes and their beaming faces, telling the electorate what double-dyed villains the other lot were. Could the elections possibly have anything to do with it? Surely not. Still … leave no stone unturned.
After protracted negotiations, he secured an interview with the Conservative Party agent for midday. Lloyd had warned him that he would need to dip into his archives; the man had sounded less than enthusiastic, but had agreed that it was his duty as a supporter of the party of law and order to help the police. But if Lloyd knew how busy he was …
He was busy, Lloyd thought, going into the CID room, and picking up the private investigators’ reports from where Finch had left off. They had, of course, searched through the files for a report of the night of the 3rd of May, but the by then weekly reports finished at the end of April and didn’t begin again until November. Nothing had been removed; the interruption had been because the private investigators had mislaid Catherine, much to the wrath of their employer. But Lloyd had known that they would never get that lucky; it had come as no surprise.
Still, there might be something in amongst this lot that would give them some sort of lead. It was evidence that his colleagues hadn’t had, and it had to be gone through.
God, Finch. With immeasurable reluctance, Anna pushed the door to, and undid the chain, opening it again to admit him.
‘I’d like to ask you a few more questions, Anna,’ he said. ‘And I have to remind you that you are not obliged to say anything, but …’
She walked away from the caution, through to the sitting room where she had a mug of coffee, and he followed her in, sitting down without being asked.
‘Do you have keys to Holyoak’s penthouse?’ he asked.
‘No.’
‘Have you ever had keys?’
She sighed. ‘Yes. Victor asked for them back last night.’
‘Why?’
‘They were his keys,’ she said. ‘ He asked for them back, so I gave them to him.’
‘Why did you have keys in the first place?’
‘I furnished it,’ she said. ‘ Got it ready while Victor was in Holland.’
‘But that was months ago,’ said Finch. ‘Why did he ask for them back last night? Why not before?’
Anna shrugged, picking up her coffee. ‘He forgot I suppose,’ she said.
‘What made him remember, Anna? Why did he want his keys back?’
Anna looked at him. ‘Max Scott and I had been using it,’ she said, enunciating very clearly so that Finch would have no trouble catching the words, and wouldn’t have to seek clarification, a favourite technique of his. ‘ He told you that morning. Victor didn’t want that to go on. All right?’
Finch looked pleased with himself. ‘So that’s what your row was about,’ he said, getting up, walking round the room, looking at the ornaments and the paintings. ‘What did you say your relationship with Holyoak was?’ he asked.
‘I told you yesterday.’
‘You worked for him.’
‘Yes.’
‘Nothing more?’
‘No.’
‘But you had keys to his penthouse. And you said he wasn’t pleased when he found out what you and Scott had been doing behind his back.’
Anna didn’t speak.
‘You went up to the penthouse with him just after five – what did you do?’
‘We talked.’
‘What was he wearing while you had this talk?’
She swallowed. A lie could land her in deeper trouble; she had to tell the truth. ‘A bathrobe,’ she said, through her teeth.
He turned, frowning. ‘A what?’ he asked.
‘A bathrobe,’ she said again.
‘Do you know, I don’t believe I’ve ever seen my boss in a bathrobe,’ he said. ‘ Odd that, isn’t it? Because I talk to her quite a lot. She generally keeps her clothes on, though. But your boss took his off. You had sex with him, didn’t you, Anna?’
‘No.’
He smiled, and sat down again. ‘Someone did,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Just before he was stabbed to death.’
‘Then it was whoever came to the bloody door!’ she shouted.
‘Oh, yes. His invisible visitor.’
‘Someone came to the door,’ she said.
Finch was still smiling. It took all her strength not to throw something at him.
‘Come on, Annabel,’ he said, with a world-weary sigh. ‘ No one came to the door. You know it, and I know it. You had sex with him. Don’t be coy – it doesn’t suit you.’
‘I never had sex with him in my life!’ she shouted. ‘And don’t you dare call me Annabel!’
He grinned. ‘That was what you were called when he took you to Holland,’ he said. ‘Why did he take you to Holland?’
‘To work for him!’
‘Doing what?’
‘This and that. I dealt with the private investigators’ stuff – I took calls for him. Personal things. Nothing to do with the business.’
He shook his head. ‘No, Anna,’ he said. ‘If that was all he wanted, he could have got anyone to do it. But he took you with him. Why?’
‘That was what I did. Until he gave me this new job.’
‘And why did he give you that?’ He stood up again. ‘And this flat – and that car?’ He looked out of the back window to where the Porsche still sat at an awkward angle to the garage. She hadn’t gone into work; there had seemed very little point. Finch looked round the room again. ‘How much did this place set you back?’ he asked. ‘And these aren’t things you pick up in chain stores,’ he said, picking up one of the heavy bronze figures that adorned her shelves, weighing it in his hand before putting it back.
She watched him like a cat as he eyed up the leather furniture, the heavy wallpaper.
‘You were worth a hell of a lot to him, Anna. You weren’t just some personal assistant. He took you there, he brought you back, he gave you a job in the company, his wife was dying …’ He turned to face her. ‘You thought you had it made, didn’t you? But then he found out that you were playing around with Scott. You had blown it, and you lost your temper. No one came to the door, Anna. You tried to frame Bannister, and you invented the visitor for insurance.’
‘What are you doing with Bannister?’ she asked, alarmed.
‘I don’t know. My boss is dealing with that.’
‘You promised me protection!’
He walked to the sitting-room door. ‘I promised you nothing,’ he said. ‘ Did she promise? Inspector Hill?’
Anna’s mind was racing as she followed him out into the hallway. She couldn’t remember. Yes. Yes. She said that Finch would protect her. ‘ You’re supposed to be looking after me!’ she shouted.
‘Why are you so worried about Bannister? Because you sent him up there to find a dead body?’
‘No!’ she shouted. ‘No! He killed him!’
‘Oh – I thought this visitor …’
‘Look!’ she yelled. ‘ Either Bannister killed him or he found him after whoever came to the door killed him! But I didn’t! I didn’t go to bed with him, and I didn’t kill him! He was alive when I left him – have you got that?’
Finch smiled. ‘Bannister’s not going anywhere for the moment,’ he said, opening the door. ‘ Don’t worry.’
She did worry, as she pushed the chain home. She was sick with worry, and she wanted Max. But Max wasn’t there, so she used the remedy she had always used in times of stress. She went into the kitchen, reaching into the cupboard for a new bottle of brandy.
Catherine opened the door to Chief Inspector Lloyd. She had just come back from identifying her stepfather, and now he was going to ask her questions. It was all starting again. She could take it – she wasn’t at all sure that Max could.
‘Come in,’ she said, ushering him into the sitting room, where she had been pretending to read the paper. But it was full of her stepfather, and she had turned to the sports pages, which might as well have been written in a foreign language. In an odd way, she was almost glad of Lloyd’s visit; waiting for it was worse than dealing with it.
‘Is your husband here, Mrs Scott?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘He went into the office to sort some things out – he should be back for lunch.’
‘I’m glad you’re on your own,’ Lloyd said. ‘Because a number of things have come to light today that require explanation.’
Catherine motioned to him to sit down. All she had to do was stay calm, take deep breaths. Stay cool. Lloyd seemed less likely to fluster her than Inspector Hill.
‘Mrs Scott – you lied to the police at the time of the murder of the first Mrs Scott,’ Lloyd said.
That was true, which did rather make it a bit difficult to defend. Catherine didn’t try. ‘Max didn’t kill his wife,’ she said, her voice clear and strong, belying the shivering she was trying hard to control.
