Little Knell (10 page)

‘I think, sir, it can only be because that someone wanted to control exactly when the story broke.'

Leeyes grunted. ‘Myself, I would have thought that putting her under some bushes in the park would have done just as well. People are always poking about in the park.' He brightened. ‘She might even have been written off as having gone for a lark in the park in the dark. You never know. That's happened before now. Saved someone a lot of effort.'

‘I don't think so, sir,' Sloan said repressively. ‘She worked for those accountants in River Street. I'm seeing them next.' Something his friend Harry Harpe had said came into his mind. ‘Now I come to think of it, they were already short-handed before Jill Carter went missing.'

‘As bad as solicitors, accountants.'

‘I think she was put where she was and the letter sent to the coroner to control exactly where she was found as well as when,' spelt out Sloan. ‘So both must be important.' That, too, was something to be going on with. ‘It's a question of where we should begin.'

There was a certain Peter Caversham of Luston to be seen as well: a man waiting in the wings, with a vested interest in nobody else turning up to claim the Caversham inheritance.

Leeyes cheered up. ‘You've got the boyfriend, though, haven't you?'

‘We know where Thornhill is,' said Sloan cautiously. ‘And statements have been taken.'

‘More than once, I hope.'

‘Yes, sir.' It was common knowledge in the Force that the superintendent, too, subscribed to the dictum in
The Hunting of the Snark:
‘What I tell you three times is true.'

‘And, Sloan, don't let one murder divert you from this drug smuggling business. Drugs kill more people every day than murderers.'

‘I won't forget, sir. Actually, it did occur to me that Horace Boller might have been using the animal rescue place at Edsway for his own purposes.'

‘I wouldn't put anything past him.'

‘It would make a good pick-up point for supplies of heroin,' said Sloan, thinking aloud. ‘You could hide anything over there.' He made a note. ‘We'll take a proper look as soon as we get half a moment.'

*   *   *

‘Just here, Crosby,' commanded Detective Inspector Sloan from the passenger seat, ‘will do nicely, thank you.'

There is one respect in particular in which police officers differ from the generality of men and women. This is in the matter of their right to park their vehicles at the kerbside in working hours in crowded roads. River Street, Berebury, where Detective Constable Crosby brought the police car to a standstill in the middle of the morning, was one of the market town's busiest commercial thoroughfares.

He drew up outside one of the stylish old houses which were a reminder of the prosperous waterborne trade of former times. Where once merchants had lived in some splendour, offices now held sway. Those of Pearson, Worrow and Gisby, Chartered Accountants, were workaday in appearance but by no means in bad order.

Sloan enquired of the receptionist if Mr Pearson would see him. The girl picked up a telephone. ‘That you, Jim?' she asked with a notable lack of formality. ‘Cheryl here. An Inspector Sloan would like a word.'

A door at the far end of the corridor opened and Jim Pearson ushered someone out of a room. Against the light as that someone was, it took Sloan only a moment or two to make out the short stocky outline of Howard Air, a long-time member of the local magistrates' bench. Howard Air recognized Sloan immediately, although his usual punctilious greeting of the policemen was somewhat muted.

‘Terrible business at the museum, Inspector,' he said. ‘Terrible. Even worse for Jim here, of course, because he knew the poor girl. At least Marcus Fixby-Smith didn't, although he's still in a pretty poor state. Didn't sleep at all last night.'

Jim Pearson, seeming much older than the last time Sloan had seen him, looked as if he, too, had had a sleepless night. ‘First David Barton with his life hanging by a thread for weeks and weeks, and now Jill Carter dead.' He sounded dazed. ‘I can't believe it.'

‘Barton is a victim of a road traffic accident,' said Sloan, remembering his chat with Inspector Harpe. He added tautly, ‘Jill Carter has been murdered.'

‘Yes, yes, I know, Inspector,' the accountant protested, ‘but they are both people.'

‘So,' said Sloan, before Pearson could move on to John Donne's sonorous ‘any man's death diminishes me', ‘I'm afraid we are going to have to take statements from you and your staff.'

‘Then I'll be taking my leave, Jim,' murmured Howard Air, looking older and greyer, too, than when Sloan had last seen him. He moved towards the outer door and, waving a farewell at Sloan and Crosby, said huskily to Pearson, ‘Thanks for all your help, Jim.'

Inspector Sloan watched the businessman go and then said casually to the accountant, ‘Is Mr Howard Air one of your clients, then?'

Jim Pearson smiled ruefully. ‘I only wish he was. His company must be about the biggest in Berebury.' He jerked his thumb in the direction of the other side of the river. ‘No, it's our upmarket rivals over the way who benefit from auditing the accounts of Messrs Air and Air, Fruit Importers Limited.'

‘So…' Sloan knew which firm he meant. Ickham and Grove were at the very top of the local league of accountants, and knew it. They were also quite concerned that everyone else in the county of Calleshire knew it, too.

‘So you want to know what Howard Air was doing here?' Pearson relaxed a fraction. ‘That's easy, Inspector. We handle the financial affairs of the animal rescue outfit over at Edsway.'

‘The Kirk sisters.'

‘And their offshoot in Lasserta, the Lake Ryrie Reserve. All done for love, I may say. Howard's their patron, and it's no secret that he's a very generous one, too. They're lucky to have him do it, but I'm told he's a softie for anything on four legs.'

Sloan, who hadn't forgotten that Colonel Caversham had had a weak spot for quadrupeds too – equine ones, anyway – got back to the business on hand. He said, ‘My constable here will be taking statements from all your partners and staff here with especial reference to the last time they saw Jill Carter alive.'

He would look into Howard Air's connections later. In his book and at this moment anyone who was involved with the Calleshire animal rescue set-up was worth a second look, just in case there was more in Horace Boller's baskets of fish than fish.

Something else worth a closer examination was the ownership of the beautiful old Bentley sitting outside the museum. When they were finished here at the accountants, Crosby could make quite sure that the classic car belonged to one of the few men in Calleshire whom he knew could easily afford it: Howard Air.

And if not him, then he could find out who.

‘And I,' said Detective Inspector Sloan, ‘would like to talk to the partners myself.'

This meant Nigel Worrow, since the only Gisby in the firm now was a callow youth called Kenneth who was still struggling with his examinations. Sloan gave every appearance of accepting this last information at its face value. He saw no need to remind anyone at the accountants that it was quite often callow youths who murder young girls, especially if the affections of those young girls are patently engaged elsewhere with rival suitors.

Nigel Worrow contrived to be courteous, brisk and solemn all at the same time. Like Jim Pearson he also looked tired and worried.

‘A very sad business indeed, Inspector. We've never ever had anything like this happen in the firm before. Jill seemed such a pleasant girl – a good worker, too, and heaven knows, we need one. We're desperately short-staffed, what with our senior audit clerk having been out of action for so long. Did Jim tell you? His life's still hanging by a thread after all these weeks and poor Jill had been doing some of his work.'

Something in this caught Detective Constable Crosby's wayward attention. He said from the sidelines, ‘And now you haven't got Jill Carter either.'

‘Quite so,' said Worrow, visibly clamping his jaws together. ‘Quite.'

‘So when did you last see her?' Sloan hastened into more official-sounding phrases. The work that the dead girl had been doing would need to be looked at by someone to whom accounts were not a closed book, but not at this minute.

‘Last Friday,' said Nigel Worrow.

‘The day she disappeared,' observed Crosby.

‘As it would seem, yes.' Worrow appeared unperturbed. ‘I happened to drop into the Ornum Arms on my way home to Edsway and she was there with a young fellow. He looked as if he was on the point of leaving as I arrived.'

‘Do you go there often?' asked Sloan, conscious of a certain triteness.

‘Only on Fridays, Inspector. Johnny Hedger's an old client; and,' he gave a tired smile, ‘sometimes actually reaching the end of another working week seems to merit celebrating.'

‘Did you speak to her?'

‘Just in passing. The man she was with really did go just after I spotted her.'

‘Had they been having a row?' asked Crosby.

Worrow looked surprised. ‘Not that I saw or heard.'

‘Would you be able to describe what she was wearing, sir?' enquired Sloan.

Here, Nigel Worrow revealed himself as the unobservant male,
par excellence.
He said he couldn't, but thought vaguely that she might have been wearing something green. And, yes, he had gone straight home to his wife and supper as usual after he'd left the Ornum Arms. The weekend he'd spent on his boat, sailing off Kinnisport. Also as usual, he added before Sloan asked.

‘By the way,' said Sloan as the two policemen were leaving at the end of what had turned into a protracted enquiry session at Pearson, Worrow and Gisby, ‘did your firm happen to act for the late Colonel Caversham of Whimbrel House?'

‘We did indeed,' said Nigel Worrow without hesitation. ‘For years and years.'

‘And that included,' chimed in his partner, ‘keeping any creditors happy while he was poking about in Egypt for months at a time.'

‘What about the extended family?' asked Sloan, casually. ‘Peter, for instance?'

Jim Pearson's face changed, his expression becoming suddenly wary. ‘Oh, you know Peter Caversham, do you? Yes, as it happens, we act for him, too.'

‘Some clients don't like using their local firms,' supplemented Nigel Worrow.

‘Too close for comfort?' suggested Crosby.

‘The colonel was a decent old boy,' interrupted Worrow swiftly, ‘except that he never did come to grips with inflation. Thought an old half-crown could still buy you most things.'

‘The generation gap, you might call that,' said Jim Pearson, smiling weakly.

*   *   *

‘I'm afraid, Inspector,' said Simon Puckle, ‘that neither Fixby-Smith nor I worried about not leaving fingerprints on anything when we were here yesterday.'

The solicitor had decided that his responsibilities as executor and trustee required him to be present when Sloan and Crosby eventually reached Whimbrel House. Or, decided Sloan, it might have just been simple curiosity. After all, lawyers are only human, too.

‘Our forensic people will take care of that,' murmured Sloan absently. ‘They'll be asking you to give us your prints presently.'

‘And Sid Wetherspoon and that young lad he had with him, I suppose,' said Puckle. ‘They must have handled absolutely everything.'

‘Them, too,' agreed Sloan. He didn't think it necessary to mention that the police probably had Wayne Goddard's fingerprints on file already. ‘Who else has had the keys since the colonel died?'

The policeman on guard duty outside had already indicated to Sloan that there were no very obvious signs of breaking and entering about the house. The Scenes of Crime people would make absolutely sure. They were on their way now with the police photographers. Sloan was still debating in his mind whether or not Whimbrel House had actually been the scene of the crime. It would be for forensic science to establish if there were traces of blood on this or any carpet in the house.

‘Only Sid Wetherspoon,' Simon Puckle was saying. ‘He collected them on Tuesday so he could see which size of van he would need and make sure that there wasn't anything here that they couldn't handle.'

‘Right,' said Sloan, hoping that there wasn't going to be anything about the murder of Jill Carter that the police couldn't handle. ‘What about Peter Caversham? Was he ever here much as a young man?'

‘As a boy, probably,' said Puckle, ‘but not since. Latterly the colonel insisted that he could only come in the house over his dead body.'

‘Like that, was it?' Detective Inspector Sloan automatically put an interview with Peter Caversham even higher on his list of priorities.

Detective Constable Crosby stirred. ‘Didn't like the idea of it going to him?'

‘Didn't like the idea of dying either,' said the solicitor.

‘One of those who thought the world would come to a dead stop when he did?' said Sloan, who had met plenty of people like that. It was a concept that accounted for a lot of short-termism in public and private affairs.

‘If our clients only appreciated,' said Simon Puckle feelingly, ‘that they, too, were going to die, they'd make a will sooner rather than later.'

‘And where there's death there's hope,' remarked Crosby to nobody in particular.

Detective Inspector Sloan sniffed, very much aware that the house had that curious smell of a building that had been empty for too long.

The solicitor must have sensed the same airlessness. ‘What this place needs are some open windows.'

‘Not yet,' Detective Inspector Sloan said. ‘That will have to wait. Now, Mr Puckle, if you would just stay here in the hall, my constable and I need a proper look over the building.'