Model Murder (8 page)

“There’s no mention here of any companion,” Kate observed to her sergeant. “I simply can’t believe that she’d be spending time in Paris alone.”

“Nor can I,” said Boulter feelingly, his eyes going to the
Gazette
photographer’s pictures of Corinne that were now pinned to the wall. “A shocking waste, if she had been.”

Kate moved on to the other highlighted report. The hotel receptionist, June Elsted, had spoken of taking a phone call for Miss Saxon late on Wednesday afternoon. The caller was informed that she wasn’t there, and that she’d be away for the next few days. But on Thursday evening the same man had phoned again and asked for Miss Saxon. Both times he declined to leave a message and had been evasive about giving his name.

“Very interesting.” Kate flicked a glance at Boulter, who was reading over her shoulder. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“You reckon he might have been phoning to check if the body had been found yet?”

“Could be.” She looked for the name of the interviewing officer. “See if Vic Rolfe is around, will you?”

Rolfe, she knew from past experience, was a hard-working detective, reliable and conscientious ... but unimaginative. He entered Kate’s office wearing a deeply worried expression on his blunt-featured face, as if he expected a reprimand without quite knowing why he might deserve one. He looked relieved at her friendly tone of voice.

 “Ah, Vic. This report of yours on June Elsted and the man who phoned asking to speak to Corinne Saxon. How did she know it was the same caller both times, if he didn’t give his name?”

“Er ... she didn’t explain that, ma’am.”

“Did you get the feeling that she knew the caller’s identity?”

Rolfe shook his head slowly, the worry back in place. “Maybe that’s what she meant, ma’am. I suppose I should have asked her. I’ll get back to her right away, shall I, and clear it up?”

“No, leave it. Go and get on with your next interview.”

Boulter sniffed when he’d departed. “Stupid bugger, I’d have given him a rollicking.”

“Just remember, Tim, if he was as bright as you are, he’d have been a sergeant by now.”

“And I’d be a chief inspector if I was as bright as you are, yeah?”

“What, at your tender age?” she said with a laugh as she picked up the phone.

“Miss Elsted? Chief Inspector Maddox here. I wonder if you could get someone to deputize for you on the desk for a few minutes. I’d like to have a chat with you right away.”

“Oh?” She sounded wary. “What about?”

“If you could just pop over to my office in the squash courts. I won’t keep you long.”

The receptionist was plainly nervous as she was shown in. Kate invited her to sit down.

“It concerns the man who phoned asking for Miss Saxon on Wednesday and again on Thursday. It’s important that we trace this person, so I want your help. Did you recognise who it was speaking? Or did you just mean that his voice was distinctive enough for you to be sure it was the same man each time?”

“Well ... both, sort of.”

“Please explain.”

June Elsted was hesitant. “I’d hate saying anything if it turned out that I’d made a mistake. I mean ... Miss Saxon being raped like that, and then strangled. I’d feel terrible if I got someone into a lot of trouble with the police when it wasn’t him at all.”

“You needn’t worry, we’ll be very discreet. But this is a murder enquiry, June, so you must tell us everything you know that might have a bearing on the case.”

She nodded, still miserable. “I’m pretty sure it was one of the guests. Well ... one of the past guests, I should say. He and his wife stayed here for a few days a couple of weeks ago. Of course, he could have just been phoning to make another reservation. Perhaps he thought he’d do better going direct to Miss Saxon.”

“Who is this man?”

“Mr. Arliss. Mr. James Arliss. He didn’t give me his name on either Wednesday or Thursday, as I told that other detective. But I recognised the voice from when he phoned originally to make a reservation. You see, I entered him in the computer as Mr.
Arlith,
with a ‘th’ ... that’s what it sounded like. Fortunately, when they arrived it was his wife who came up to the desk while he was giving instructions about the luggage, and of course she said Arliss quite clearly, and I was able to correct the error without her realising that I’d got their name wrong.”

“What you’re saying,” Kate said, “is that he speaks with a lisp?”

“Well, yes. But on Wednesday and Thursday the caller asked for Miss
Thackthon,
like that, and it reminded me of the other man.”

“You’re certain in your own mind that it was Mr. Arliss, aren’t you?”

“I ... I wouldn’t want to have to swear it was, or anything.”

“Yes, I understand. Let’s assume for the moment that it
was
him. What made you think he might have wanted to make another reservation and imagined he’d do better going direct to Miss Saxon?”

“Well ... some people always go straight to the top, don’t they?” But she said it evasively.

“I think,” said Kate, giving her a direct look, “that you can give me a better answer than that.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Tell me,” Kate said flatly. “Come on, now.”

The silence stretched while the receptionist sat looking cornered, petrified. Boulter shifted his feet and was about to say something. But his preliminary throat clearing was enough to trigger her into a babble of words that came out in jerky little spurts.

“I ... I don’t want to give you the wrong idea. I mean, it mightn’t really have been how it looked. You see, it was only once I actually ... and even then, well, I can’t be absolutely sure how serious it was, can I?”

“Just slow down, June, and explain what you’re saying.” Kate spoke calmly, encouragingly. “There was something going on between Mr. Arliss and Miss Saxon, right?”

 “Yes.” It was said in a whisper. But her voice suddenly gained strength as she continued, and Kate realised she was beginning to enjoy her role as witness. “Well, it was pretty plain that Mr. and Mrs. Arliss didn’t hit it off very well. At meals, they hardly said a word to one another, just acted polite, and they mostly did quite separate things while they were here. The staff all noticed, it was so obvious. Anyway, I several times saw him and Miss Saxon chatting and laughing together, in the bar or wherever. But then, Miss Saxon did that with a lot of the guests, so I didn’t take too much notice. One afternoon, though, Mr. Labrosse was off-duty and Deidre—that’s the secretary—was away sick. Someone phoned to make an appointment to see Mr. Labrosse, so I walked through to the office to check in his desk diary. I had no idea anyone was in there ...”

“And?”

“It was Miss Saxon and Mr. Arliss. In a real clinch, they were, and it looked as if they’d been at it for some time. I just stood there in the doorway, completely stunned, and they broke apart. Miss Saxon was furious, and she yelled at me to get out. I just turned and ran. She could be really nasty when she wanted.”

“Did you tell anyone else about this?”

“No, I didn’t dare. I mean, if it had got out among the staff she’d have known it was through me, wouldn’t she, and I like my job here. After a few minutes Mr. Arliss came out and he stopped by the desk and pressed a ten-pound note into my hand. He winked at me and put a finger to his lips. But it wasn’t because of him I kept quiet, it was because of her.”

“I see. Very well, June, you can go now. When you get back to the reception desk, look up Mr. Arliss’s address for me, please, and call me back with it.”

As the door closed behind her, Boulter said, “Sounds as if we’re onto something with this Arliss guy. Could be he wanted kinkier sex from our victim than she was ready to give him. Shall we pull him in?”

“I’d really like to take him by surprise before he has time to cook up a good story.” Kate considered. “Thank God it’s Saturday, but I can’t afford a long wasted journey if he’s not at home. He probably lives miles away.”

When the phone rang, Boulter picked it up. “Oh yes, Miss Elsted, I’ll take it down.” He scribbled. “And the phone number, if you have it.” He jotted that down, too. “Thanks.”

“How far is it, Tim?”

“We’re in luck, guv. Arliss lives at Marlow, less than fifty miles at a guess.” Still holding the phone, the sergeant punched out a sequence of digits, waited, then said, “Sorry, wrong number.” Slamming down the phone, he announced triumphantly, “He’s at home as of this minute, guv.”

“You can’t be certain it was Arliss himself who answered.”

“Want to bet? I was listening for it, and he obliged. The guy said ‘Four, three, one, nine, thith, theven.’”

* * * *

The phone rang again just as they were about to leave ten minutes later. Boulter answered.

“It’s Dr. Meddowes for you, guv. Can’t be a post-mortem result yet, surely?”

Kate held out her hand for the phone. “Good morning, Dr. Meddowes. Does this mean you’ve completed your p.m.?”

“Certainly not. You should know that a post-mortem cannot be hurried.”

She waited while he huffed and puffed a bit. “I’m never happy about giving out my findings piecemeal, Chief Inspector. But there is a matter about which I thought you should be informed at this early stage.”

Kate made an uh-huh sound that was meant to convey interest and gratitude.

“You’ll be getting my full report in due course, but I think this piece of evidence might make a difference to your line of enquiry. So I have decided to put you in the picture without delay, even though my examination of the deceased is not yet complete.”

For crying out loud.
Patience, Kate.

“Good of you, Doctor,” she murmured.

He paused dramatically. “This woman, Corinne Saxon, was not raped.”

“What?
Or do you just mean that penetration wasn’t achieved?”

“I mean precisely what I said. She was not raped, and I would further hazard a guess that rape was never his intention. The man meant it to appear so, which accounts for the torn clothing and exposure of naked flesh. And you, my dear Chief Inspector, fell straight into his trap. I suppose, to be fair, it is always difficult for a woman to be properly objective about rape. Even,” he added heavily, “when that woman is a senior police officer.”

“I’d be grateful, Dr. Meddowes,” she said between, clenched teeth, “if you’d tell me what led you to this conclusion.”

“My findings will be presented in detail in my report. But to summarize, there is no sign of bruising in the region of the vulva, no blood staining, no trace of seminal fluid. And no foreign pubic hairs. There is no sign whatever of very recent sexual activity. In short, Mrs. Maddox, no man could commit rape, nor attempt rape, without leaving a trail of evidence to that effect. There is a total absence of any such evidence in this case.”

A few stray wisps of white cloud only highlighted the intense blue of the sky. The September sun, lower now than in full summer, laid a coat of shimmering gilt across the English countryside. But Kate and her sergeant were too preoccupied to appreciate the beauty of it.

They’d had to delay setting out for Marlow in order to brief the squad on the new development. Now, as Kate’s Montego ate up the miles under Boulter’s fast, capable driving, they tried to reassess each of their potential suspects against the discovery that Corinne Saxon had not in fact been raped.

“What I still don’t get, guv, is why the hell it was made to
look
like rape.”

“Presumably to mislead us into thinking that she was attacked by a total stranger. But we’d already discounted the likelihood of that, hadn’t we?”

“Our chummy, whoever he is, must have felt confident we’d never dream that
he
might have raped her.”

“Right, Tim. He ... or she.”

The sergeant shot her a startled glance. “You reckon it could have been a woman?”

“That does become a possibility now, doesn’t it? A strong woman could have strangled her.”

“A jealous wife, you think? Mrs. Arliss, rather than Mr.?”

“We’ll need to check out her alibi, certainly. Or it could equally have been the angry wife of an ex-husband,”

Boulter accelerated past a slow-moving truck. “That Elizabeth Kenway is pretty hefty. Pregnant, of course.”

“But only three months.”

* * * *

The Marlow police, with whom Kate and Boulter cleared this intrusion into their territory, gave them directions to the house called Oakleigh, the home of Mr. and Mrs. James Arliss. It was of recent vintage, probably built for its present owners. Like its neighbours it stood well back from the road, and was nicely separated from the next-door houses by spacious gardens. Kate noted a garage wide enough for three large cars.

“They’re not short of a bob or two,” Boulter observed, as they swung in between the white-painted gateposts. “But then they wouldn’t be, if they could afford to stay at a ritzy place like Streatfield Park.”

A man in jeans and a green sweatshirt was clipping a tall box hedge with electric shears. Noticing the car, he switched off and laid the tool down on the grass, then came towards them.

“We’re here to see Mr. Arliss,” said Kate, getting out of the car.

“That ith me. How can I help you?” The standard English voice was close to Eton and Oxford; but not, Kate judged, quite the genuine article. James Arliss was six-foot-one or-two and well built, with good muscle tone for a man of middle years. His hair, still plentiful, was professionally styled and discreetly tinted, with the temples left grey to add distinction.

Kate introduced herself and Boulter. “We’d like a few words with you, sir. Perhaps we could go inside.”

Arliss didn’t move. “What ith thith about, Chief Inspector?”

“It’s in connection with Miss Corinne Saxon, sir, of the Streatfield Park Hotel. You were a friend of hers?”

“A friend of herth? Oh, hardly ...” He broke off, and began again. “I heard about the death of Mith Thackthon on the radio thith morning. A dreadful buthinith. But what makth you think I can help you?” Then he added, as if suddenly aware that they might be overheard in the open air, “You had better come inthide.”