Doomed to Die Page 4

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Thanks. I really would appreciate it. Nothing I say seems to make any difference. Perhaps Louise will listen to someone from outside the family who’s been through the same thing herself.’

  Lineham pulled up at the main Sturrenden to Maidstone road, then crossed it to enter Nettleton. It was now just after midnight and apart from a single light in the bedroom of one of the cottages the village was dark and silent.

  ‘D’you know where the house is?’ said Thanet.

  ‘In Wheelwright’s Lane. It’s a turning to the right, just past the post office.’

  The black and white timbered building, formerly a private house, which housed the general shop and post office loomed up on their left.

  Lineham signalled and turned right. Wheelwright’s Lane was narrow and winding, with a scatter of cottages which soon gave way to open fields and clumps of trees, their branches etched black against the night sky.

  ‘Now,’ said Lineham, leaning forward to peer through the windscreen, ‘if it’s where I think it is … Yes, it’ll be one of these.’

  Ahead lay a cluster of buildings: a pair of cottages on the right and several larger, detached houses strung out along the road on their left.

  ‘What’s it called?’ said Thanet.

  ‘Applewood House.’ Lineham slowed down as they came to the first drive entrance.

  ‘This is it,’ said Thanet, peering out. The name was stamped in black letters on a white board attached to the right-hand gatepost.

  Lineham reversed, then drove in, wheels crunching on the gravel.

  Despite the hour there were lights on in the house, a sizeable red-brick house of relatively recent design, with white-painted window-frames which gleamed in the darkness.

  There was no knocker and after a moment or two of groping and peering Lineham found an iron loop which he thought must be the bell. He pulled it.

  No response.

  ‘Try again,’ said Thanet.

  A minute or two later a man’s voice called out, ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Police.’

  The scrape of a key, the rattle of a latch and the door swung open. A man peered out.

  ‘Mr Master? It’s Inspector Thanet, Sturrenden CID.’

  Master swayed. ‘Ah, Thanet, yes … What is it? What’s the matter?’ The words were slurred and it was clear that he had been drinking.

  ‘If we could come in for a moment …’

  Master stepped back unsteadily to let them in and led them through a small, square hall into a room on the left. Inside he turned slowly to face them. ‘What is it?’ he repeated.

  A thrill of interest and curiosity coursed through Thanet’s veins at his first clear view of Master’s face. He was familiar with Master’s conventional good looks, well-cut tweed suits and generally well-groomed appearance; he and the estate agent were both out and about a lot in the area in the course of their work. Tonight, however, Master sported a black eye and severe bruising of the left cheek. His tie was loosened and his usually sleek brown hair was dishevelled. He was clearly in no condition to receive such news as this – if news it was. On the other hand, if he were innocent, perhaps the fact that his perceptions were blunted would help to cushion the blow.

  In any case, Thanet had no choice. ‘Won’t you sit down, Mr Master?’

  Master simply stared at him with alcohol-dulled eyes.

  ‘Shall we all sit down?’ Thanet moved decisively to the nearest armchair and sat.

  Following Thanet’s nodded instruction Lineham stepped forward and, putting one hand gently under Master’s elbow, guided him to a chair and lowered him into it.

  Master continued to stare blankly at Thanet.

  Come on, get it over with, thought Thanet. ‘I’m afraid we have some bad news for you.’

  No change in Master’s expression.

  ‘It’s … it’s about your wife. She … I’m sorry, there’s no way I can make this easier for you … She was found dead earlier this evening.’

  Master continued to stare and it was a full minute before a glimmer of comprehension and disbelief crept into his eyes. ‘Dead?’ he whispered. His voice grew louder, thickened. ‘Perdita? She’s not. Can’t be.’

  ‘I’m sorry. It’s true.’

  ‘No!’ Master rubbed his hands over his face, his eyes, shook his head violently as if to clear it. ‘Must be mistake. All right s’ evening.’

  ‘You saw her this evening, then?’

  ‘Just said so, didn’t I?’ Master raked his hair with his hands, made an obvious effort to pull himself together and speak clearly. ‘There must be some mistake,’ he repeated stubbornly.

  Thanet shook his head. ‘I’m afraid not.’

  There was a brief silence, then Master muttered, ‘’Scuse me,’ and blundered out of the room.

  At Thanet’s nod Lineham followed him. The sergeant left the door open and it was soon clear that Master had merely crossed the hall to a cloakroom; from the sound of it he was dousing his head in water.

  Thanet glanced around. A dying log fire smouldered in the hearth and a near-empty bottle of whisky and half-full glass showed where Master had been sitting. A television set still murmured in a corner and Thanet crossed to switch it off before studying the room more closely. It was large, and spacious, with windows on three sides, French doors which presumably opened on to the garden and a high ceiling decorated with plaster mouldings. Interestingly, however, despite the big, soft sofas and chairs and tastefully disposed antique furniture, the impression was curiously chilly and impersonal. Thanet frowned, trying to work out why. Perhaps it was absence of clutter – books, newspapers, magazines? Or perhaps the predominance of blue? Blue and cream carpet, deep blue or cream upholstered chairs, cream brocade curtains … Only one bright pink chair and a brilliant explosion of colour in a picture on the wall opposite the fireplace redeemed the room from coldness. Thanet crossed to take a closer look at the painting, which had caught his eye earlier. Indeed, it could hardly fail to catch the eye. A thought occurred to him: perhaps, if Perdita Master had painted it, the room had been designed around it, to accord it just this degree of prominence?

  It was, he realised as he drew closer, a watercolour, not an oil painting as he had at first thought. He was no connoisseur of art, and had always supposed that such vibrancy of colour could only be associated with oils. This was, he supposed, a painting of a garden, or of a flowerbed, depicting a waving forest of brilliant fuchsia-pink exotica – lilies, perhaps? – in a dense, lush undergrowth of writhing greens and purples. And yes, it had been painted by Perdita Master; her signature was in the lower right-hand corner.

  He was still studying it when Lineham returned, followed a moment or two later by Master, whose hair was wet and roughly combed. The estate agent certainly looked more alert, and Thanet wasn’t sure whether the glazed look residual in his eyes was due to shock or alcohol. It shouldn’t take too long to find out.

  Master plumped down in his armchair, automatically picked up his glass, looked at it, then slammed it down again so forcibly that the liquid slopped over on to the table-top. ‘Oh, sit down, for God’s sake! No point in standing there like a couple of tailor’s dummies.’ He buried his face in his hands, shaking his head and massaging his forehead with hooked fingers.

  They sat.

  ‘I really am sorry,’ said Thanet gently.

  Master looked up. ‘Are you?’ he said fiercely. Then he leaned back, closed his eyes. ‘Oh God, I’m sorry. It’s not your fault …’ His eyes snapped open, suddenly dark with apprehension. ‘You haven’t told me yet what happened, how she …’

  There was no way Thanet could soften the blow. ‘Your wife was found dead in the kitchen of Mrs Broxton’s house. And I’m afraid it was no accident.’

  Master stared at him, trying to take in the implication. ‘No accident? What d’you mean? Are you saying …?’

  ‘I’m sorry. Yes. She was killed, deliberately.’

  Master’s eyes we
re wide with shock. ‘Murdered?’ he said, his voice rising. ‘You’re saying Perdita’s been murdered?’

  If the man was acting he was carrying this off superbly. But then, he would have a lot to lose … Thanet nodded. ‘Yes.’

  ‘But how …?’

  ‘It looks as though there was an argument, a quarrel … So far as we can tell at the moment, Mrs Master fell, knocking herself out –’

  ‘And the bastard just left her there to die!’

  Master’s voice was hoarse with outrage and Thanet did not contradict him. If Master were innocent there was no point in turning the knife in the wound by giving further details.

  Master moaned and again buried his face in his hands. From time to time he shook his head in disbelief or despair.

  Thanet sent Lineham to make some coffee. ‘Hot and strong.’

  When Lineham returned Master accepted the mug of steaming liquid and sipped at it as obediently as a small child. Eventually he said wearily, ‘I suppose you’ll be wanting to ask me some questions.’

  ‘When you’re ready.’

  ‘I’m as ready as I ever will be.’

  ‘Very well … You say you saw your wife earlier on this evening?’

  A nod.

  ‘Would you tell us about it?’

  The man hesitated, clearly marshalling his thoughts. ‘You obviously know that she was staying with Mrs Broxton …’ He waited for Thanet’s nod. ‘Well I got there about half past eight, twenty to nine …’

  ‘I’m sorry to interrupt, but was this meeting prearranged?’

  Master looked uncomfortable. ‘No. I just called in on the off-chance …’ He waited, but Thanet remained silent. ‘Anyway, she agreed to come out for a drink with me …’

  ‘What about the children?’ said Thanet.

  Master waved a dismissive hand. ‘Oh, that was all right. They were sound asleep.’

  Thanet’s face must have shown his disbelief, because Master burst out angrily, ‘If you don’t believe me you can ask the landlord of the Green Man in Melton. There weren’t many people there, he should remember us.’

  Master must be telling the truth, the story could so easily be checked.

  ‘I think it only fair to tell you that Mrs Broxton said your wife had left you.’ Thanet paused, but Master said nothing. ‘She also says that you have since attempted to talk to Mrs Master on at least two occasions, once on Saturday night, when you followed her to her parents’ house, and once on Sunday afternoon, at the hospital. She says that Mrs Master had gone to stay with her in the hope of a few days’ peace when she could sort out what she wanted to do … You must see that in the circumstances I find it very difficult to believe that she willingly went for a drink with you this evening, especially as it would have meant leaving the children alone in the house at night.’

  ‘No, well …’ Master was realising that some explanation would have to be given. His hand moved to pick up his glass of whisky, stopped. ‘Oh hell, what’s the point of pretending. The truth is, I made her come with me … Don’t look at me like that! Don’t you see, I had to talk to her. And she wouldn’t let me in.’

  Thanet could understand why. Once Master had got his foot over the threshold there would have been no way that Perdita could have got rid of him.

  Abruptly, Master stood up and began to walk about. ‘She was my wife, for God’s sake! Surely a man’s entitled to talk to his own wife!’

  ‘Mrs Broxton’s neighbour has told us that around 8.30 there was some sort of commotion outside Mrs Broxton’s house. A man shouting, she said. I assume, from what you’re saying, that that was you.’

  Master swung around and faced Thanet. ‘I told you, Perdita wouldn’t listen! And don’t think I can’t see where all this is leading, Thanet.’ He advanced until he was standing only a few paces in front of Thanet, looming over him threateningly.

  Bracing himself in case of attack, out of the corner of his eye Thanet was aware of Lineham also tensing in readiness for action.

  Master was pointing an admonishing finger, punctuating practically every word by stabbing the air. ‘Just get this into your head, will you? I did not kill my wife. I wouldn’t have harmed a single hair of her head …’ His tone suddenly changed. ‘Can’t I make you understand? I loved her!’ His belligerence had evaporated and he now sounded more bewildered than anything else. ‘I loved her more than anything on earth, and now …’ Abruptly he plumped back down into his chair and his eyes filled with tears, which began to spill over and trickle down his cheeks. Tugging a handkerchief from his pocket he dashed them away impatiently.

  Only the most consummate actors can cry at will. The man’s distress was genuine, Thanet was sure of it – but based on what? Grief at the news of the death of his wife, or remorse at having brought it about? Thanet was as aware as the next man that the most likely culprit in a case of domestic murder is the husband or wife, and this fact had caused him some of the most uncomfortable moments in his career. Always, in this first interview with a bereaved partner, he was torn between compassion in case the suspect were innocent and determination that if he were guilty he couldn’t be allowed to get away with it.

  ‘Look, Mr Master, you shouldn’t jump to conclusions. I assure you that at the moment we have a completely open mind on the subject. I’m just trying to get you to see that you have to be frank with us –’

  ‘All right, all right, you’ve made your point!’ The man’s natural aggression was already beginning to reassert itself. He blew his nose loudly and put the handkerchief away.

  ‘So let’s start again from the beginning, shall we? You got there at about 8.30 …’

  FIVE

  At a signal from Thanet, Lineham took over the questioning. It was some time before the full story emerged.

  Master had arrived at the Broxtons’ house between 8.30 and 8.40. In response to his knock Perdita had come to one of the front windows, being understandably wary of opening the front door at night in such a quiet country area when, apart from the children, she was alone in the house. At first, seeing that it was Giles, she had simply gone away, but he had persisted, banging more loudly on the door until she had come to the window again and this time opened it.

  ‘Giles! Stop making all that noise, you’ll wake the children. Go away!’

  ‘Let me in! I have to talk to you.’

  ‘I’ve got nothing to say to you. We said it all on Saturday night.’

  ‘Perdita, please … I won’t stay long, honestly.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Giles, I just don’t feel I can trust you to keep that promise.’

  Thanet guessed that she had also felt she couldn’t trust her husband to keep his temper.

  ‘But I will! I will, honestly … OK, look, in that case, let’s go down to the pub in the village, for a quick drink. We won’t stay long, I promise. You can leave whenever you like …’

  ‘And leave the children alone in the house? Don’t be ridiculous. It’s out of the question!’

  And she had closed the window and gone away again.

  ‘So then what did you do?’ said Lineham.

  ‘Well I wasn’t going to give up, was I? No way!’ Master shook his head. ‘After all, as I say, all I wanted to do was talk to her, for God’s sake! So I thought, Right, if that’s the way she wants it … If she doesn’t mind the children being woken up, that’s fine by me. And if Mrs high-and-mighty Vanessa Broxton doesn’t like having the police called around to her house, then that’s just too bad.’

  ‘So what did you do?’

  ‘Hammered on the door and shouted fit to wake the dead,’ said Master with retrospective satisfaction.

  It was perhaps the fact that the word was at the end of the sentence that made it seem to hang on the air, reverberate. The brief animation which Master had displayed while he recounted this incident fell away and his expression changed as he returned to the present with a thud. ‘Oh God …’

  Thanet waited for a minute or two before saying, ‘This needn’t t
ake much longer, sir. If you could just finish telling us …’

  Master nodded, took a deep breath, then expelled it slowly. ‘She didn’t hold out long, of course. I knew she wouldn’t.’

  After a few minutes Perdita had returned to the window and reluctantly agreed to talk to him outside. A moment or two later she had come out, shutting the front door behind her.

  Presumably so that her husband wouldn’t force his way in, thought Thanet.

  Master had stopped.

  ‘Then what?’ said Lineham.

  ‘I was hopping mad,’ said Master sullenly, ‘at the way she was treating me. After all, she was the one who was in the wrong. She was the one who’d walked out on me, not the other way around …’

  Lineham said nothing, waited.

  ‘I didn’t see why it all had to be on her terms.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘I told you, I was furious with her …’

  Thanet guessed that Master was ashamed of what he had done next, and this was why he was prevaricating. He could also guess what was coming.

  Lineham was still waiting.

  ‘I made her get into the car,’ muttered Master shamefacedly.

  Lineham opened his mouth, shut it again.

  Thanet imagined the sergeant had been going to say, ‘Made her? How?’ and had thought better of it. Sensible perhaps to gloss over the use of force at this point. But it wouldn’t have been difficult. Perdita had been small and slight, Master must be a good fifteen stone.

  ‘Then what?’ said Lineham.

  Master shrugged. ‘I’d left the keys in the ignition, so it was easy. I just took off. We went to the pub, as I said.’

  Lineham was shaking his head. ‘Sorry, sir. After all that I can’t see Mrs Master meekly going along and having a drink with you. How did you manage to … persuade her?’

  Master shot him a venomous look. ‘All right, so I’m not very proud of myself now …’

  Lineham raised his eyebrows.

  Master jumped up and went to stand in front of the fire, his back to them. ‘Oh hell …’ He swung around to face them. ‘I simply told her that if she didn’t I’d just keep on driving, and the kids would be left alone all night. But if she agreed, ‘I’d guarantee to get her back to the house in half an hour.’