Model Murder (17 page)

“I doubt it. Berger is going to be a lot tougher to break than Pascoe was. We’ve still got no hard evidence that Berger was anywhere near the scene of the murder.” She raised her eyes aloft, towards the superintendent’s office on the floor above. “No solid facts.”

Berger greeted her return with an air of supreme confidence. Marred only by the fact that, had he really been as innocent as he claimed, he should have appeared more indignant than sarcastic.

“Back already, Chief Inspector. Having failed dismally, no doubt, in your attempt to bludgeon poor young Pascoe into giving you the story you want to hear.”

“Actually,” she said, “Mr. Pascoe has confirmed what I already believed to be the case. I felt sure he wasn’t someone who’d willingly cover up for a murderer.”

“What the hell do you mean? What’s the silly young fool been telling you?”

“In essence, that you were not in fact with him at Yew Tree Cottage last Wednesday afternoon. That he felt obliged to help you out by concocting a false alibi for you. So I’m afraid the game is up, Mr. Berger. I’d like the truth now.”

“Very well. I was ... somewhere else that afternoon.”

“The point is,
where?”

He was silent, debating the odds. Finally, he muttered, “Where I was is no concern of yours.”

“It’s very much my concern, and you know it. So tell me.”

He adopted, somewhat painfully, an air of candour. “I assure you, Chief Inspector, that where I was had nothing to do with this case. I was not murdering Corinne Saxon, nor anywhere near East Dean woods. If you insist on knowing ... well, I was with a lady whose identity I cannot reveal.”

“In the circumstances, her anonymity is not possible. Who is she?”

“There is no way I’m going to tell you that. It would ... end her marriage if this came out. I have given her my word that nothing will induce me to reveal her name, and I intend sticking to that.”

“Nothing, Mr. Berger? Suppose your refusal results in a charge of murder?”

His face lost colour, but he retained his aplomb. “That’s ridiculous. Totally absurd. How can a perfectly innocent man be charged with murder?”

Kate knew that as long as Berger stuck to his story, there could be no question of charging him. What evidence did she have? Just that Berger was the “Ram” who’d pestered Corinne Saxon on the phone. From Vincent Pascoe she only knew where Berger had not been at the time of the crime, not where he actually was. Her own conviction that she’d found her killer was based on nothing that would be acceptable to the Crown Prosecution Service.

Kate still persisted for a while, hoping she might open up a crack in his armour. But Berger remained stubbornly confident. So confident, indeed, that he never even hinted that he wanted his solicitor present. At length, she had no option but to give up and let him go. For the moment.

When Berger departed, self-assured to the last, Kate said to her sergeant, “We’re going to put everything we’ve bloody well got into nailing him. Turn the whole squad onto gathering data about Adrian Berger ... his domestic life, his business contacts, his friends and his enemies. Somewhere out there is the proof we need.”

But such a concentration of effort never happened, it was overtaken by events. When Kate and Boulter reached the Incident Room they were greeted by Frank Massey, looking harassed for once.

“There’s been a second murder, Kate. Just five minutes ago a chambermaid found Yves Labrosse in his room. Dead from a blow on the head.”

By normal standards, the suite occupied by Yves Labrosse would have to be described as luxurious. At Streatfield Park it rated merely run-of-the-mill. A spacious sitting room, with a bedroom plus adjoining bathroom through an archway, nice decor, nice furnishings, nice pictures on the walls. While Dr. Meddowes made his on-scene examination and the SOC team were busy, Kate and Boulter absorbed what could be seen without touching anything and possibly destroying evidence.

The dead man lay in a crumpled heap on the floor. Blood had oozed from an ugly wound at the back of his head, matting his dark hair. He was dressed in the immaculate way Kate had always seen him—a beautifully tailored grey wool suit, with pristine white shirt and grey silk tie. There was something different about his attire, though, which she couldn’t pin down for the moment.

Labrosse had been struck from behind, it would appear, while seated at a small rosewood writing table. The murder weapon was there on the carpet, a silver-gilt candlestick with a heavy octagonal base. Presumably it had been snatched by the killer from one end of the mantelpiece, since its identical partner stood at the other end. Nothing else in the suite appeared to have been disturbed. A thin smear of blood covered the length of the candlestick, and Kate surmised that when the weapon came to be examined they’d find it had been wiped clean of fingerprints. With what? No sign of any bloodstained cloth.

By all the laws of logic, the second murder had to be linked with the first. Two entirely unconnected killings of top personnel at Streatfield Park was beyond credibility.

So where the hell, Kate thought despondently, had all her brilliant intuition and deduction got her? Maybe, after all, Adrian Berger had finally told her the truth. Maybe his false alibi had been given, just as he claimed, for chivalrous reasons, in order to protect a lady’s reputation (and also, of course, to protect himself and his firm from the wrathful vengeance of his well-connected wife). Maybe Adrian Berger was entirely innocent so far as Corinne Saxon’s murder was concerned.

Stuff that, Kate.

Except—and what a bloody big except it was—Berger couldn’t also have killed Yves Labrosse. And why not? Because he’d been at DHQ when it happened, being questioned by her. Labrosse was seen alive at approximately ten o’clock, and discovered dead at seven minutes past eleven. Seldom could the time of death in an unwitnessed murder be pinpointed with such accuracy. The medical opinion on the matter of timing was superfluous, but Kate didn’t tell Dr. Meddowes that. The pompous little man was in a jovial mood, savouring the grandness of his new role as regional pathologist. Having pronounced Labrosse dead, killed less than an hour previously by a blow on the head from a blunt instrument, he was inclined to linger and relish Kate’s difficulties.

“Two
murders to solve now, dear lady. You’re not finding the responsibility of it all too onerous for you, I trust?”

“I’m coping, thank you,” she said sweetly. “How about you, Dr. Meddowes?”

“Me?” He looked mystified.

“I was wondering how you felt you were measuring up to your higher status, Doctor. You’ve not got in above your head, I trust?”

Kate regarded his huffily departing back with satisfaction. “Right, Tim, you know the drill. I’m going to have a word with Admiral Fortescue. Shan’t be long.”

“The drill” consisted of opening up a whole new murder enquiry. Re-interviewing everyone they’d already questioned, in relation to the second killing. Reconsidering everything the police had so far uncovered, to see how it could be interpreted now that Labrosse too was dead. Just when she’d fondly been thinking there was light at the end of the tunnel.

Kate knocked at the door of the admiral’s suite, and was confronted by a darkly doubtful Larkin.

“Admiral Fortescue is very upset,” he told her in his north-country brogue. “He’s not well enough to see you now.”

“I’m sorry, but I’m afraid I must talk to him right away.”

The manservant nodded sullenly. “I’ll go and tell him that.” He withdrew into the room, leaving the door just ajar. Kate heard a low murmur of voices, then the admiral called in a quavery voice, “Please come in, Chief Inspector.”

He was seated in his usual armchair, looking paler and altogether frailer than she had ever seen him. Which wasn’t really surprising, with his managers falling like ninepins. He might even be wondering if he too were in danger.

At his invitation, Kate seated herself. Larkin hovered in the background, as if standing guard over his master, and he didn’t get dismissed. Perhaps the admiral felt in need of moral support from his long-time steward.

“The death of Mr. Labrosse has complicated matters, sir, just when I felt I was nearing a solution to Miss Saxon’s murder.”

“Yes, yes, it’s a terrible thing. But does this mean, Chief Inspector, that you thought you had identified Corinne’s killer?”

“Things seemed to be moving in that direction,” Kate said, without enlarging. “But now I have to consider whether the two killings were perpetrated by one and the same person. So I am faced with having to re-question everyone who had any kind of connection with both victims.”

“The same person, you think?” Admiral Fortescue considered for a moment, then nodded his head. “Yes, I suppose that would be a logical assumption.”

“At the same time, of course, I have to keep every possibility in mind. Have you yourself any thoughts as to who might have had a motive for killing Mr. Labrosse?”

“None, Chief Inspector. None whatever.”

“Are you quite sure?” He’d seemed to dismiss her question too readily. “Please think very carefully.”

Choosing his words now, the old man said slowly, “I don’t think one could say that Labrosse was universally popular among the staff. He was, perhaps, a little over-abrupt in giving instructions. But that would hardly constitute a motive for killing him, would it?”

“Has he ever had to dismiss any employee, who might since have harboured a grudge against him? Perhaps against Miss Saxon, too.”

“Oh, no, there’s been no such incident, I’m thankful to say. The staff engaged by both him and Miss Saxon have all proved to be satisfactory, and they all appear to be happy working here. As far as one can judge.”

“So you can’t think that any of the staff would have a reason to want to kill either of the victims?”

“Absolutely not.” The admiral glanced round at the surly figure who stood hovering behind his chair. “Have you any thoughts on the matter, Larkin?”

“Me, sir? Can’t say I have, sir.”

Kate left it there. She had already established in connection with Corinne’s death that it would be possible—not easy, but possible— for an outsider to enter the hotel and move around without being challenged. Another possibility was that one of the guests might have had a motive for killing Labrosse, and perhaps Corinne, too. She made a mental note to pay particular attention to the guests whose stay had spanned both deaths.

“I shall now have to ask you both,” she went on, “to account for your movements for the period during which Mr. Labrosse met his death. That is, between ten o’clock and eleven-seven.”

“I was here, of course,” Admiral Fortescue said sharply. “I don’t usually leave my rooms until lunchtime, and not always then.”

“And how about you, Mr. Larkin?”

“I was here, too. With the admiral. Where else d’you think I’d be?”

“So you can each vouch for the other?”

“That’s right,” said Larkin.

“Do you agree with that, sir? You can confirm that Mr. Larkin was here, too?”

The admiral frowned, as though unable to grasp the reason for her insistence. Then he nodded in irritation, “As Larkin says, yes ... yes, indeed.”

Sid Larkin stepped forward. “Now look here, miss, you can see the master isn’t well. You shouldn’t be bothering him like this.”

“This is a murder enquiry,” Kate replied with a quelling glare. “I shall ask whatever questions I consider necessary at this time.” She turned back to the admiral. “What are your intentions regarding the hotel, sir?”

“My intentions?” He gave her a lost, bewildered look. “I ... I really don’t know what is to be done. This has been such a shock, coming on top of Corinne’s death. I haven’t had an opportunity to consider the matter.” He shook his head regretfully. “I cannot see that I have any choice but to close the hotel—for the time being, at any rate. The guests will have to be asked to leave. Indeed, a number of them will probably wish to do so now.”

“Couldn’t the hotel tick over for a while? At least for a few days? I’m very anxious that you shouldn’t take a hasty decision to close, sir. There will have to be further questioning of the staff and the guests, and it would be more convenient to have as many as possible still on the premises.”

“I see. Well, I suppose ...” He seemed in something of a daze, all his former air of authority gone. Kate could well understand that the continuance of the hotel must seem of little importance to him in the present circumstances. “I’ll talk to the chef and the housekeeper, Chief Inspector, and see what arrangements can be made to keep going.”

“Thank you.”

Back at her office in the Incident Room, Kate instructed Boulter, “Get someone to go through the hotel’s files and let me see all correspondence relating to Labrosse ... letters about his appointment to the job here and so on. Has anything useful emerged from the search of his rooms?”

“No. He doesn’t seem to have had any outside contacts.”

“Get the desk in his office searched, too. There might be something there.”

The phone rang, and it was Richard.

“Listen,” she said before he could say anything, “I’m up to my eyeballs right now. There’s been a second murder.”

“My God! Who?”

“The manager here, Yves Labrosse.”

“Labrosse?
That’s very interesting. I’d better come and see you now, Kate.”

“Didn’t you hear what I said? I won’t have a minute to spare, not for days. Possibly even weeks.” Her voice had grown shrill—from despair. Because there was nothing she’d like more at this moment than to be with Richard.

“Okay, keep your wig on, Kate, I’ve just come across something that might be significant. Even more so now that Labrosse is dead. I’ll come over right away, okay?”

Within fifteen minutes Richard was ushered into her office. His limp seemed very noticeable as he came forward and dropped into the spare chair.

“Bloody leg,” he grumbled. “Means there’s more rain on the way.”

“Can’t you take something for the pain?” Kate asked sympathetically.

“Already have done,” he said with a grimace. “Now then, here’s my little offering.”