Murder... Now and Then (19 page)

Was
very forthcoming, thought Lloyd. He'd have said so, if Finch hadn't been there.

‘But he has a reputation with women which made the investigating officers a touch suspicious of his sudden shyness.'

She was enjoying herself now. Lloyd waited to hear what gem she was about to give them.

‘Anyway,' Judy went on, ‘he stuck to this not terribly convincing story until, one Miss Barnes turned up the next morning. She was seventeen, and had worked for him in London. She said that he had been with her on business, and had been trying to keep her name out of it, not wanting to get her mixed up in a murder enquiry. She had a bedsit in that block of flats, but there was no suggestion that she was on the game herself.' She smiled. ‘In any event, Scott married her just over six months later.'

‘The woman he's married to now?' said Lloyd.

Judy nodded. ‘No one believed her for a minute, but they were never able to get any hard evidence that he'd been at home either. Forensic couldn't place him at the scene, no one remembered seeing him when he shouldn't have been there. It was election day, so there were a lot of people about in the area, which is how come they could narrow down the time of death. Broad daylight, but none of them saw Scott. And the case was never officially closed. And something else. Zelda Driver tells me that Scott didn't even know Holyoak
was
his wife's stepfather until the day before yesterday.'

‘And when her stepfather turns up …' said Finch slowly, ‘ Scott starts slapping his wife about.'

Lloyd thought about that. A man like Holyoak, with a multi-million-pound fortune, discovering that his stepdaughter had been used to concoct some phony alibi, might have been able to dig into the matter of Mrs Scott's death with more time and money and fewer restrictions on how he operated than the police; he might have found out too much. Scott might have thought his wife had colluded with her stepfather in someway, especially if she had kept the relationship a secret.

‘A chat with Mr and Mrs Scott would appear to be indicated,' said Lloyd. ‘If we can find them. But in the mean time, Tom, you have a word with Miss Worthing.'

Finch went off, and Lloyd told Judy about the lack of a wallet, which was a little puzzle that didn't quite fit in, in his opinion. ‘I think you should get as much as you can on the first Mrs Scott's murder,' he said. ‘It may well have to be unofficially reopened from never having been officially closed.'

‘You can have the body taken to the mortuary now,' said Freddie. ‘I can do the PM tomorrow morning.'

‘Good,' said Lloyd. ‘Any chance of a time of death?'

‘Thirteen minutes past eight,' said Freddie.

Lloyd sighed. ‘All right, all right. I just want a very rough estimate.'

‘Very rough? All right. Over twelve hours. That's as rough as you can get.'

Lloyd's face lit up. ‘ Over twelve hours?' he repeated, and looked at his watch. ‘Are you saying he was dead by eleven o'clock last night?'

Freddie sighed deeply. ‘I'm saying that rigor mortis is complete,' he said, and shrugged. ‘That makes it just possible – no more – that he's been dead for over twelve hours, and under twenty-four. His body temperature suggests the lower end. It could get argued out of any court in the world. I don't know what he was doing at the time of death – if he was taking exercise, that could have speeded everything up, and the indications are that he was taking very vigorous exercise indeed. And, despite your expert advice, Lloyd, I still don't know what killed him. If he bled to death, the attack could have happened some considerable time before he died. If his attacker stabbed a vital organ, he could have died there and then. All or any of these factors could cancel one another out, and bring you back to the figure you first thought of. He could have died the day before yesterday, for all that rigor tells us. Or two o'clock this morning. Take your pick.'

Lloyd sighed.

‘But whoever did it must have caught some blood,' Freddie said. ‘Their clothes would be flecked with the stuff – even if they weren't wearing any at the time. Unless they had hung them up neatly in the wardrobe of course,' he added cheerfully. ‘Holyoak didn't, though. His were on the chair.'

Lloyd was almost getting to the stage where he permitted the neutral plural to denote a single person of either sex. Its use in this case said more about Freddie's refusal to make automatic assumptions than his grammar.

‘Probably someone right-handed,' said Freddie. ‘I'll get a better idea when I've got him on the table, and can measure the depth and angle and all that.'

He was looking
forward
to it.

‘Sorry to have had to bring you bad news, Miss Worthing,' said the young man who had introduced him self as Detective Sergeant Finch.

Anna sat down. Her head was splitting, and her memories of yesterday evening were, to say the least, haphazard. Some things she remembered with the utmost clarity, but great pieces of the evening were missing. She remembered getting into her car outside the pub, and knowing that she had had far too much to drink to be driving, but that she had driven anyway. She remembered driving into the garages behind the flats, and deciding against trying to put the car away. She had left it out, and even that had been less than successful, the car sitting at an acute angle to her garage door.

She remembered being startled to see Max as she came upstairs; he had no business being at her flat, and Victor had told her not to see him again. And he had been disapproving about her having driven. But then, Max didn't drink; he couldn't have got the car back in one piece if he had been in her condition. She remembered, vaguely, being pleased about that, as though it had put her ahead in some sort of stakes.

She had faint, confused memories of telling Max what had happened. My God, what had she told him? How much had she told him? She didn't know. She didn't
know
. In between telling Max that she had told Victor to stuff his job and waking up with Max asleep beside her and this unforgiving hangover, there was a total blank.

‘Would you like something?' the sergeant was asking. ‘A cup of coffee, or something? Colin – make Miss Worthing some coffee, please.' He jerked his head towards the open kitchen door, and the young policeman took himself off. ‘Black,' Finch added, making a correct assessment of Anna's state of health.

It had been the knocking on the door that had brought her to consciousness; Max had slumbered on as she had pulled on the silk dressing-gown that hung on her door, and opened the front door, on the chain, to the police telling her that Victor was dead.

‘We thought that you might be able to help us,' Sergeant Finch said.

She looked up at him. It hurt.

‘He might have disturbed an intruder,' he said. ‘We don't seem to be able to find Mr Holyoak's wallet. I take it he did carry one?'

She nodded dumbly. Dear God.

‘We thought you might know if anything else is missing,' he said. ‘Well, my boss thought you might know.' He smiled. ‘He was at the do,' he said. ‘Chief Inspector Lloyd.'

She remembered him, at any rate, if she couldn't remember much else. He had fancied her. She didn't speak.

‘You were in the flat with Mr Holyoak yesterday?' he asked.

‘For a little while,' she said guardedly.

‘We'll need your fingerprints,' he said. ‘ Was his stepdaughter still there when you were with him?'

A shake of the head this time. But that hurt more than speaking. ‘She left some time during the afternoon,' she said.

‘You were alone with Mr Holyoak?'

She sighed. ‘Yes,' she said.

‘And what time did you leave?'

‘About quarter-past six,' said Anna.

‘Did you see anyone you didn't think should be there?' he asked.

‘No,' she said.

‘Did you see anyone at all? Security men, whatever?'

She frowned. ‘I don't know,' she said.

‘Where did you go when you left?'

She didn't answer. She couldn't. She hadn't had time to think about this.

‘I'm sorry if you think it's none of my business,' he said. ‘But I have to know where you went, in order to corroborate your story that you left at quarter-past six.'

Anna looked back at him.

‘It's just so that we can eliminate you from our enquiries,' he said. ‘It's routine.'

‘Anna?' Max's voice called from the bedroom. ‘Come back to bed! What are you doing out there, for God's sake?'

Oh, hell. That was all she needed. The bedroom door opened, and Max emerged, yawning, scratching his head, and quite, quite naked. ‘What's going on?' he asked.

‘Mr Scott' said the young man, his face expressionless. ‘We meet again.'

Max narrowed his eyes a little. ‘Detective Sergeant … don't tell me, I'll remember … Starling. Swallow?' The words were slurring slightly.

‘Finch, sir.' He remained entirely impassive.

‘Finch, Finch. Of course. Knew it was some sort of brainless creature. What the hell do you want this time?'

My God, Max had got drunk too. And he was still drunk, unlike her. She was horribly, desperately, sober. No wonder he hadn't heard the knocking.

‘I'm making enquiries into the death of Mr Victor Holyoak,' said Finch.

‘Holyoak's dead?'

The constable reappeared from the kitchen, carrying a tray on which he had set mugs and a pot of coffee. The whole lot very nearly went when he saw Max.

Anna wished he would get dressed. She stood up, taking the tray and putting it down on the coffee table, where it rested unevenly. She pulled her keys out from underneath it.

‘Don't you think you should put some clothes on?' asked Finch.

‘Why?' asked Max, putting his arms round Anna from behind, trying to kiss her neck. She could smell the alcohol. ‘Is nakedness a crime? Finch is from the Thought Police,' he said.

She tried to shake him off.

‘I don't want to stop you
thinking
, Mr Scott,' said Finch. ‘Just hitting women.'

Anna twisted round to look at Max. She couldn't imagine him hitting a woman. Max had been a revelation to her; he was a truly kind, gentle man. Finch must have got that wrong. But he hadn't, as she found out when Max spoke again.

‘I slapped my wife's face yesterday, and I spent last night screwing you – Sergeant Peacock doesn't approve.' He gave the sergeant the benefit of his booze-laden breath. ‘What happened to Holyoak?' he asked.

Anna took advantage of being released from Max's embrace to sit down again, and Finch handed her a mug of black coffee without answering Max's question. ‘ Drink it,' he said. ‘It'll do you good.' He straightened up, and looked at Max. ‘ Perhaps you wouldn't mind getting dressed, sir,' he said again.

‘Perhaps I would,' said Max.

‘I don't think you answered my question, Miss Worthing,' Finch said. ‘Where did you go when you left Victor Holyoak's flat?'

‘She was here,' said Max. ‘With me.'

‘And what time did you get here, Mr Scott?' he asked.

‘Half six. Anna was here when I arrived, and we've been together ever since. Couldn't have got a bus ticket between us all night, isn't that right, girl?'

Finch turned to her, then, with a questioning, and disbelieving look.

She gave a nod of confirmation. Partly because Max had left her very little choice, and partly because you never told the police anything that you didn't have to. But she much preferred not lying to them, and she much preferred Max sober.

‘Thank you, Miss Worthing,' said Finch. ‘Perhaps you wouldn't mind coming in to let us have your fingerprints some—'

‘What for?' demanded Max.

‘Elimination, sir. We have to know who has been in Mr Holyoak's flat.'

‘Then you'd better have mine,' said Max, swaying slightly. ‘ I've been there.' He leered at Anna. ‘We've spent a lot of time up there.' He looked back at Finch. ‘If you know what I mean,' he said, with a suggestive movement of his pelvis.

‘Thank you, sir, your prints would be useful.'

‘So you can go now, can't you?' said Max, holding out his hand to Anna.

Bemused, she took it, and allowed herself to be hauled up from the sofa. He put his arm round her waist and pulled her towards him; she could feel the tension in his body as they touched. ‘And let us get back to what we were doing,' he said. He squeezed her even closer to him, and his heart was beating fast.

‘Yes, sir,' said Finch. ‘ But I will be making enquiries to see if anyone can confirm when Miss Worthing came home last night. I'm sure you understand, Miss Worthing.'

They left, and Anna almost fell under his weight as Max's body went completely limp. He pushed her away as he ran into the hallway. He made it to the bathroom, where he was predictably sick. He closed the door when he could, and Anna heard the sounds of ablutions being performed until he emerged again, his long figure looking comic in her bathrobe.

‘Sorry,' he said, sitting down shakily.

She left him to recover while she too showered and cleaned her teeth, and tried to make herself feel more human. Two Veganin, she thought might help. Three.

‘You shouldn't have got drunk,' she said when she came back out to him. ‘You're not used to it.'

‘I didn't,' he said.

‘Max – I could smell it. And you were behaving like I don't know what.'

‘I took a swig from your bottle before I came out,' he said. ‘What was left of it.'

‘Why?' she asked, mystified. ‘And why did you come out naked, for God's sake?'

‘Would you question a repulsive naked drunk if you didn't have to? I wanted to get rid of him, and I did.'

‘But what made you sick?'

He dropped his head. ‘Memories,' he said.