Faraday 01 The Gigabyte Detective (18 page)

That was why Paulson wanted to talk to him. Jimmy Tate was one of those nosey old boys beloved of detectives. He knew every owner of every boat on the marina - who their wives and family and close friends were, what times they were most likely to visit their boats or take them out, where they would choose to go and what time they would probably return. He would spot an intruder instantly at any time of day and was likely to follow him to see whether he was a legitimate visitor or someone who ought to be turned out on his ear. He also had a prodigious memory and a useful tendency to make notes of unrecognized car numbers and other such information. Stafford thought that he was much under-valued by the owners of the marina and the people who kept their boats there. He himself certainly had cause to be grateful to the man for helping him with his enquiries on a number of occasions.

He went outside and walked to the top of the sloping ramp which led down to the pontoons. The tide was low and he had a good view of most of the marina. Sure enough, he picked out Jimmy on the end of one of the pontoons - a small, slightly-hunched figure in his beige cardigan and grey bags. He was watching a client inexpertly manoeuvring his gin palace, stern-first, into a space big enough to have accommodated an ocean-going cruiser. Paulson started to walk towards him without hurrying.

Nevertheless Tate must have sensed him coming and turned to meet him. “Afternoon inspector.” His face took on the slightly guilty smile some people have when they talk to the police - as though they have some secret, illicit thoughts and are afraid they’ll give themselves away. “What can I help you with?”

“I know what a good memory you’ve got, Jimmy,” said Paulson. “Do you remember the business about two years ago, when Alfred de Billiere’s wife fell overboard from their motor cruiser and drowned?”

“Course I do.” The old boy nodded helpfully. “He still keeps his boat here. He and his new wife come down from time to time. In fact he leaves me a key in case I need to go on board. Do you want to have a look at it?”

“That’d be helpful,” agreed the inspector.

“I’ve got it here.” He indicated the massive bunch which hung from his belt. “Follow me. It’s half-way down pontoon C.”

Paulson followed obediently as Jimmy shuffled over the smooth planking.

“That was a funny business,” Tate volunteered over his shoulder

His tone alerted Paulson. “What do you mean, Jimmy?”

“I mean - why ever should an idle bird like Joanne Billiere suddenly decide to take a great big boat like that out to sea.” He shook his head. “She’d never done it before.”

“Did she often come down to the boat?”

Jimmy put his head on one side. “Yes, from time to time, when she was bored with being by herself at home. In the summer she’d come down in her tight white trousers and striped sweater and open up the place and stretch out on the after-deck with a gin in her hand hoping to see somebody she could talk to. She even invited me to take a drink with her in my earlier days, when I looked a bit more presentable.”

“Really?” grinned Paulson. “Did you accept?”

“Not bloody likely.” There was little mirth in his chuckle. “My Glenda would have had my guts for garters if word had ever got back to her that I was taking drinks with somebody like that.”

“Like what?” asked the inspector innocently.

Tate pulled a face. “I heard she was a real goer, was our Joanne. All sorts of things were supposed to have happened down below on her boat.”

“Did you ever see any of this happening?”

They had reached a large, expensive-looking gin palace. Jimmy turned and looked at him with affected innocence. “Any of what?”

“Any of these things,” said Paulson, “which you allege were supposed to have happened down below on her boat.”

“Course I didn’t,” retorted the old man. “Look here.” He pointed at the boat. “The bedrooms are down below. The only windows are those little slits under the gunwale with curtains pulled across them. Nobody’s going to see anything down there, are they?”

Paulson sniffed. “But that doesn’t mean she was forever disappearing down to the sleeping cabin with various men. Surely someone would have seen them going.”

“Course they wouldn’t,” said Jimmy. “It’s the easiest thing in the world. The man’s down at the marina on his own. His wife thinks he’s playing around with his boat. She’d much sooner stay at home and watch Coronation Street. The man decides to call on our lady for a drink and they sit and exchange chit-chat. Evening’s coming on - it’s starting to get dark. Joanne says she’s feeling cold and she’s going below to put a jumper on. She gets up and disappears inside and doesn’t come back. The man finishes his drink, looks round and sees no-one’s watching, so he gets up and walks inside where she’s got herself all ready for him. Nothing could be easier.”

“You dirty old bugger,” laughed Paulson. “You’ve got it all worked out, haven’t you? I reckon you’ve done this sort of thing a few times yourself. Wait till I tell Glenda about you. Talk about guts for garters.”

Jimmy flushed but didn’t retreat. “I tell you this sort of thing goes on all the time down here. You get to recognize the types - and Joanne Billiere was one of those. Regular stopping off point, she was, for some of the guys. Anyway, come and have a look round.” He led the way down the gang plank onto the after-deck and unlocked the wide patio doors to the main cabin.

The inspector followed him with interest and looked round the palatial quarters, rather like a luxury living-room with a small bar on one side. “Is that what you think happened to Joanne de Billiere on the night she died?” he asked. “Did she have one of these fellows on board and they decided to put to sea for the fun of it when they were half-pissed?”

“I don’t know, do I?” The old boy paused with one hand resting on the bar. “I finish at six o’clock when the proper security firm come on. After that anything could happen.” He shook his head. “I reckon those guys are a waste of money. All they do is sit in the office and every hour one of them goes out and does the mister plod bit up and down the pontoons. They don’t know who anyone is and they don’t have any idea what’s going on.”

“So what do you think went on that day?”

Jimmy shrugged. “I don’t know for sure. She come down here after lunch. I saw her when I went round at about three o’clock, stretched out on her sun-bed in her bikini.”

“You’d remember that, would you?” Paulson couldn’t resist a grin.

“Yes, I would,” said the old boy, positively. “She was a stylish woman, our Joanne, even if she wasn’t no spring chicken, if you know what I mean. Anyway she was down below when I come back about five to five-thirty.” He grinned and nodded. “I remember that too.”

“Are you suggesting she had some bloke down there in the afternoon?”

“No.” Jimmy shook his head. “There were too many people about. She might have just gone down for a rest out of the sun, or something else.” He paused and lowered his voice. “But she might have been getting herself ready for later in the evening.”

The inspector took a breath and considered what he’d learned. “So, you think that what may have happened is - that she had a bloke come on board for a drink, and she did her trick of inviting him below. Then, they either had some sex and a few more drinks and decided to take the boat out for the hell of it, or else they decided to take the boat somewhere more private and have the drinks and sex bit when they got there. Is that right?”

“The second.” Jimmy’s view was decisive. “This is quite a big boat and you’ve got to be pretty careful how you handle it in the marina. If they’d done that with a few drinks inside them, they’d have been likely to hit someone else and then there’d have been complaints coming in.” He shook his head. “And I never heard nothing like that about the Billiere boat.”

“Do you remember seeing any likely candidates for the man on that evening?” enquired Paulson. “Were there any single men working on their boats that day?”

Tate thought carefully. “I don’t remember anyone special,” he said at last.

“Or,” the policeman’s accent was heavy, “were there any boats the next morning which appeared to have been left unattended at fairly short notice - things lying about on the deck which hadn’t been cleared up - that sort of thing.”

“I don’t remember noticing anything unusual,” said Jimmy. “But it could have been someone who just walked into the marina without going to a boat of their own. I told you, these guys on the gate don’t check anything what comes through.” He shook his head again. “But I don’t believe Joanne Billiere would take that boat out on her own, especially with night coming on. It’s just not like her.”

“What I don’t understand,” said Paulson, “is why a witness at the time says that he could only see the one person on board.”

“That’s easy,” said the old man. “Joanne may have been up on the bridge, but this boat has dual controls for when the weather isn’t so pleasant. The man could have been in the control cabin here.” He led the way through an area where stairways went up and down from the main deck and opened a door into a small room at the front of the superstructure with windows on three sides. Paulson saw the steering wheel and the twin throttle levers for the engines.

“How far away was this chap who saw her taking the boat out?” asked Jimmy.

“Walking along the Princess Pier.”

“Well, you can see the windows are darkened glass,” he pointed out. “With the low angle of the evening sun, anyone steering the boat from here would have been virtually invisible.”

“And once they were out of the harbour, he could have gone up on the bridge and joined her,” Paulson mused.

“Or she might have come down here to join him.”

The inspector nodded. “It’s an interesting theory, Jimmy. The question is - who was this man? You say you don’t remember anyone who was down here that day?”

“The only person I can remember seeing was Mr Hillman, who used to be the mayor,” said Jimmy. “But I’m sure he left an hour or so before I did.”

“Nevertheless I’ll remember that,” Paulson grunted, remembering the possible link with the suicide of his wife. “Well, that’s been helpful, Jimmy. I may want to come back to test a few theories with you later.”

He left the old boy to lock up and made his way back to the car to check he’d got answers to everything in the computer questionnaire, which was mercifully short about Jimmy Tate.

* * * * * * * *

At the Burrows’ cottage, DCI Faraday led the way round to the back door and tapped on the glass. Although she could see Emily Burrows at the sink, Charlotte had to knock twice more quite loudly before she could get her attention. It was obvious that the old lady wouldn’t be able to hear any traffic passing the front of the house. She introduced Prendergast to Mrs Burrows as the woman let them in and put on the kettle.

Then she went to the door leading into the rest of the cottage. “Stanley,” she called out, “they’m ‘ere to collect our list.”

There came a sound of movement from inside and a minute later the old boy arrived brandishing several sheets of paper. “‘Ere you is then, my dear. ‘Ere’s a list of everyone we can think of goin’ back over several year.”

Charlotte took the sheets of paper, sat down at the kitchen table and surveyed them. They were written in a small, shaky hand and must have contained well over two hundred names. Some were set down as ‘couple in black car - can’t remember name - stayed about half an hour’. Where names had been remembered there was often no explanation. She ran her eye down the list. Hardly any of the names meant anything to her. She thought the whole experiment would probably prove to be quite useless.

Emily Burrows was handing out cups of tea. One was placed by Charlotte’s elbow. She picked it up and drank. Over the rim of her cup she caught the name ‘Mr and Mrs Hillman’. She put her cup down and pointed at the names. “Is this Mr Lionel Hillman who owns the garages?”

Stan came forward and peered at the paper short-sightedly. “Mr and Mrs ‘Illman,” he quavered. “That’s right, ‘e owns the garages.”

“Did they come often?” asked Charlotte.

He nodded ruminatively. “Quite often. Well, she used to come often. ‘Course, she be dead now so ‘er don’t come no more. Anyway,” he tailed off, “there bain’t no-one ‘ere for ‘er to see if she did come now.”

Charlotte looked at him. “What did you think of Mrs Hillman? How did she seem to you?”

“Well now.” He stood and looked at the floor, seemingly stumped for a reply. “She were a good looker. There bain’t no doubt about that. I’d say one of the best lookers around for a long way.” And he lapsed into thoughtful silence.

“Did you ever speak to her?”

He looked up. “‘Course I did - sometimes when she caught I pruning the roses or summat like that.”

“So she was often here, was she?” asked Charlotte. “Did she like to go round the garden?”

“Oh, yes,” he agreed. “Mr Adams was very proud of his roses. ‘E liked to show ‘em off to people. And we had the finest show in Torquay some year, though I says it meself.”

“He sometimes showed Mrs Hillman round the roses, did he?” Charlotte didn’t know why she was labouring this point - perhaps because it was the only obvious link between the two deaths.

“Oh yes.” Stan Burrows nodded again. “He used to show all sorts of people round his roses. Finest rose garden in Torquay at the time. Stands to reason that he’d show ‘em off, don’t it?”