Dark Ritual (12 page)

Twenty

“DS Peale and DC Coombe. Can we have a few minutes of your time please, Miss? Your boss has just given us permission to interview you.”

Trish Carver paused for a second or so behind the bar in the Fox and Goose to adjust the shoulder of her print blouse and leaning over the counter studied the police officers faces carefully. “Has this to do with Sandra Peterson’s death? Has Gary Brown mentioned me? He needs an alibi?”

“That’s right, miss.”

“Gary looks a hard man but he wouldn’t hurt a fly. And yes, he was with me on Sunday night.” The dimpled smile and strong white teeth flashed as she looked Peale over.

“You haven’t been here that long, have you, Miss Carver? You’re from Sydney, Australia? When did you first come here?”

She frowned. “I’ve done nothing wrong. I’m going back home in a couple of months.”

“So what brought you here to this small village, Miss Carver? I would have thought you would prefer the bright lights of London?” Coombe came in quickly.

“That’s where you’re wrong. Had some of that already. Decided I’d rather stay here awhile.” She fidgeted with her denim skirt again. “You ought to ask Mr. Tefler about that. He brought me over. Paid me a tidy dollar or so. Wanted me to work in his nightclub. I needed the money to pay for my studies back home. I tried working in Soho. Couldn’t do it, and as I’d come here to Lower Milton first and like it best of all I got myself a job here. They’d like me to stay longer but no can do.”

Peale was digesting this information carefully. It looked as if they had got someone who had been an egg mule for Howard Tefler. He caught Gerry Coombe amused eyes and nodded.

“Miss Carver, when did Mr. Tefler arrange for you to come over here?”

She thought for a moment and chewed her gum. Hitched up the loose blouse again. “Sure. Let me see now. It would be early February. Found it cold here at first. Got used to it though.”

“Were you asked to bring anything over with you, Miss Carver? He came to meet you at the airport?”

“He did.” She laughed. “Treated me like a princess. He wanted to take pictures of me arriving. Had the press cameras waiting for me. Publicity for his night club, he said. Had to wear an expensive classic suit must have cost him a fortune...”

“Anything else, Miss Carver?”

“A special corset, underclothes and bra worn to make the clothes look good, his woman agent in Sydney advised it when I was taken to fit them.”

Peale and Coombe exchanged looks.

“Afterwards I was given a change of clothing at his nightclub for more PR photos.” She looked apprehensive. “Say why are you asking me all this? This can’t have anything to do with Sandra Peterson’s death, can it?”

Peale and Coombe exchanged looks. “That’s all for now. You have been a great help, Miss Carver. Thank you.”

Twenty-one

They got out of the police car and approached the Bell residence at a leisurely pace. It was a long beautifully reconstituted red brick barn and alongside it stood an elegant stable with three horses on view as they crossed the cobbled yard. At a considerable distance back from the house, Fowler could see the large chicken sheds and open runs. These obviously housed the mass of clucking, jostling speckled hens that appeared to be kept in ideal outdoor conditions and kept well away from the Bells living quarters.

They took an unofficial stroll round the back and saw a swimming pool with loungers out on the patio deck around it and a tennis court. The Bells believed in keeping in good healthy condition also.

Peale observed sharply with a crooked grin, “They probably have a gym and sauna inside too, Bob. Not bad. Wish I could have fallen on the gravy train like that after I left the Service.”

Peale had served for three years, after two in the Army cadets, he’d admitted to Fowler, and had been glad to leave to go into the police force at twenty three.

“You think so?” Fowler shook his head. “Whatever made Bell take on chickens in his retirement, Peale?”

Peale lifted the heavy iron Gargoyle door knocker and its sound vibrated loudly through the long beamed framework of the wooden and brick building.

A woman answered it. A tall redhead with a strong, strikingly, handsome rather than beautiful face, Fowler thought. She was dressed in riding gear and looked askance at the officers when she saw them.

“Mrs. Bell? DCI Fowler and DS Peale. We would like to ask you and your husband some questions, please. If he is available?” Fowler flicked his identity card and smiled pleasantly.

“I do not understand. Rollo has already spoken to you, Chief Inspector Fowler. Is that not so? So — what more can we tell you?” She shrugged her slender shoulders in the rust red corduroy hacking jacket. “I do not see what it could possibly have to do with me, who killed Sandra Peterson? She was a tramp. What you would call a slapper, yes?” But she opened the door wider to let them in to the large, open plan sunlit, living room, which stretched along the full length of the house.

Fowler, who had spent three years of the seven he’d served in the army stationed in Germany, caught the Berliner accent which Erika had nearly polished out of existence.

“Who was that, Erika?” Bell walked down the wide flight of stairs directly in front of them. He stopped mid stream when he saw the police officers.

“Good morning, sir.”

Bell laughter was false. “Oh — it’s you, Chief Inspector Fowler. I thought I’d given you everything you needed to hear. I don’t think I can give you anything else.”

“We would like to speak to both of you, Captain Bell.”

Fowler caught the quick glance that Rollo Bell flashed to his wife. He had no doubt picked up why they were there. So how were they going to face this out? Deny everything to start with? They knew that there was only Martin’s word against theirs.

Downstairs the open plan and expensive furnishing was used attractively and with good forethought and planning. Erika would have been responsible for this Fowler thought as he glanced round quickly. If anything he plumped for the comfortable cottage with character that Viviane aimed for and achieved so credibly. This was an empty show place and nothing more. He could see why Rollo Bell liked to spend a good bit of his free time in the more companionable company at the Fox and Goose.

Bell was definitely edgy against Erika’s studied unconcern. He nervously adjusted his gold and green paisley silk cravat he wore in the open neck line of his cream shirt. Still sticking to the army service protocol and rules Peale thought with some amusement. He had not bothered to keep that up once he’d left. He was pretty sure that Gary Brown didn’t bother to conform either.

“What more can I tell you, Chief Inspector? Erika will confirm that we were here together all Sunday night.”

Erika lighted a black Sobrani cigarette with a gold gas lighter deliberately and viewed the police officers with raised eyebrows and an impudent smile. “That is so, Chief Inspector. He never left my side...”

A
never
truer
word
, Fowler thought glancing at Peale.
And
they’ll
stick
to
that
.

“We are here to ask you about something else.”

Erika took hold of her husband’s arm. “
Und
what can that be?” Her smile stayed tight as if it was enamelled in place.

“We have received information regarding the illegal use of your chicken farm.”

Bell laughed and shook his head. “No problem. I welcome checks on our fowls at any time. They’re in good health and you can ask our vet. He’ll tell you they’re absolutely in first rate condition.”

“This has nothing to do with your fowls, sir.”

“It hasn’t!” Husband and wife looked at one another.

“Please do enlighten us, Chief Inspector.”

Fowler thought that they would do well in a rep drama. They had managed successfully to keep their arrangement secret so far. In a small village where not much could be kept from the local gossips, Daisy Doughty for one, it had been nothing short of a miracle.

“I’m sure that you must know the business that has brought us here. It has to do with smuggling, sir.” Bell uttered an outraged gasp which he quickly smothered with a look from his wife. “You are responsible for smuggling rare bird’s eggs into this country. And you have hatched the fertile eggs from fledglings into valuable mature birds which can make you a fortune...”

Twin spots of colour blazed in Bell’s thin cheeks, as he snorted, “It’s bloody nonsense, officer. Of course we strongly deny it.”

“You must have thought you’d got the ideal place to hide them in here with the chickens,” Peale intervened. “How long does it take you to find buyers for them?”

Erika tossed her head. “From where did you get this? You cannot believe this. It is rubbish.”

“We understand that Mr. Howard Tefler is also implicated, sir,” Peale said, his notepad held in his hand.

“Tefler! How on earth is he supposed to come into it?” Bell’s blue eyes looked as if they had popped out on stalks, Fowler thought, smothering a smile.

“As a sleeping partner. Mr. Tefler has good contacts abroad. He is an Australian and has used young girls as mules. Girls who have come over to work in his nightclub as lap dancers and hostesses for short periods. They carry the fertile eggs in their bras, Captain Bell.

“We shall therefore inform Customs and they will come with a warrant to search these premises and sheds. We shall also bring in our forensic team to search for any clues as to Sandra Peterson’s presence here on Sunday night, Captain Bell.”

Erika Bell shrugged and stubbed out her cigarette in the ash tray. “You can do this, officer. You will find nothing. Nothing at all here. We are chicken farmers. We are not criminals. This is crazy. You have no proof. You cannot believe what that deaf idiot tells you!”

So they knew where the information came from.

“We shall see what Mr. Tefler has to say shortly. Captain Bell, you still have nothing to say?”

He glared at the police officers. “We have nothing to hide here. You can get your warrant and search. That’s if you have nothing better to do. Are you any closer to finding Sandra Peterson’s killer, Chief Inspector? I should have thought that was your immediate priority.”

“Thank you, sir. We shall have the warrant when we come again.”

Fowler was pretty sure they had taken the film out of Sandra’s camera and destroyed it. Fowler doubted that they had done more than order her out of the place. She had used Martin’s keys and probably had had no more than a few minutes to look round at everything. They made sure that she had taken nothing except for a few feathers she had picked up and concealed in her bag. Strange that those were in her hair though. They would have stopped short of calling the police because she had got into their private place. It would have risked exposing them, too.

Twenty-two

Next port of call was the Manor house and Howard Tefler. This was more like it, Fowler thought, approaching the mellow old stone Manor house. He nodded appreciably as they looked around at the well kept walled gardens, catching the honey sweet scent of some old fashioned roses and lavender. However Tefler earned his money he’d used it really well here.

The pretty housemaid showed them into the large living room, which despite its dark linen wall panelling was light and sunny. Peale looked her over with as much appreciation as Fowler had the house. Could this be Mrs. Doughty’s niece? Her voice told them that she was a local girl. He winked at Fowler, who was obviously thinking the same.

“Chief Inspector Fowler, Sergeant Peale. I don’t suppose you’re here collecting on behalf of the Police Charity?”

The Aussie twang was pleasantly present in his voice as Howard Tefler greeted them, his fair hair darkened by recent immersion in water, a hand held outstretched in welcome, the other thrust down into the pockets of his blue towelling robe. “Just out of my pool. I’m ready to give you what help I can to catch the bludger who killed our Sandra. I was expecting you to come to see me earlier.”

“You were, Mr. Tefler? Sorry we left it so long.”

He grinned. “So fire away, Inspector. How can I help you?”

I
bet
you
were
expecting
us
. Fowler thought. Bell would have been on the phone immediately as soon as they left their place.

“We would like to know your movements on Sunday night, sir?”

Tefler smiled pleasantly. “My movements, Chief Inspector? No problem. My manager for one, in my club in Soho, would verify what time I was there and when I left to drive home. He will confirm that I was still in my office, let me see now, at about 12:15 a.m.”

“You were acquainted with Sandra Peterson, sir?”

Tefler nodded. “She was one honey of a Sheila. No one could miss her in a crowd. Boy, oh boy. A real woman and a beauty. She dined with me here twice. I also like to entertain the vicar and his wife, a nice young couple. Tim does a good job here preaches a good sermon. And Doc Lambdon and his wife occasionally. That way I know what goes on here. I personally managed to stop the post office from closing. It pays to know influential people.”

“We visited Captain Bell this morning, Mr. Tefler.”

“You don’t think that Rollo has anything to do with the poor girl’s death, do you, Chief Inspector?” His face captured a look of surprise that was nigh on perfect. It deserved applause for effort.

“I cannot discuss that, sir. But we would like to ask you how big a role you have played in his smuggling activities, sir? Which is currently dealing with parrots...? Rare birds, sir?”

Tefler frowned, his heavy blond brows drew in tightly on the handsome, bronzed face then he laughed heartily and wiped his heavy jowl with his towel.

“That’s rich! Who’s been spinning you these fairytales, Inspector? Smuggling birds, eh?” His face cleared. “My God! And where the hell do you think we could keep the birds. If there were any? It’s bloody rubbish, Fowler. And you know it.”

“Bell bred them on his chicken farm, Mr. Tefler. But you arranged for their passage over here with the young women you employ at your club. They bring in the fertile eggs.”

“What proof have you got?”

“We have information from a witness, sir.”

“Oh — yeah. Don’t tell me, Martin Robbins! You’re not going to take his bloody word for it, are you? He’s a dill, a country boy.”

“I will shortly have a warrant to search the Bell’s farm. We have good reason to look for forensic clues concerning Sandra Peterson. We believe that she went there to take pictures of the birds and was discovered by the Bells on their premises.”

“You’re barking up the wrong tree, Officer. And you have no proof.”

Fowler knew that Teller was right. By now they would have cleared out all signs of the smuggled birds. “Is there anything else I can you help you with concerning Sandra Peterson, Chief Inspector?”

“Not for the moment, sir,” Fowler said equably.

As they walked out into the driveway Peale said, “He was spinning us along. He was ready for us, Bob.”

Fowler laughed. “I should have been worried if he wasn’t. He’s a clever adversary. And maybe he’s going to get away with this but not if he was responsible for Sandra’s death. Not if I can help it.”