The Private Patient (21 page)

Rhoda Gradwyn had somehow or other got hold of the postmortem report. Death had been by strangulation and the injuries to the face, which had destroyed the eyes and broken the nose, were inflicted after death. Gradwyn had also traced and interviewed one of the police officers concerned with the case. There had been no mystery. Death had occurred at about three-thirty on a Saturday afternoon when the grandmother, then aged sixty-nine, had gone to a local hall to play bingo. It was not unusual for the children to be left alone. The murder had been discovered when the grandmother returned home at six o'clock. Lucy's body was on the floor of the kitchen in which the family mostly lived, and Shirley was upstairs asleep in her bed. She had made no attempt to wash her sister's blood from her hands and arms. Her fingerprints were on the weapon, an old flat-iron which was used as a doorstop, and she had admitted killing her sister with no more emotion than if she had confessed to leaving her briefly alone.

Kate and Dalgliesh sat for a moment in silence. Kate knew that their thoughts ran in parallel. This discovery was a complication which would influence both their perception of Sharon as a suspect—how could it fail to?—and the conduct of the investigation. She saw it now as fraught with procedural pitfalls. Both victims had been strangled; that fact might prove irrelevant, but it was still a fact. Sharon Bateman—and they would continue to use that name—wouldn't be living in the community if the authorities hadn't seen her as no longer a threat. To that extent, wasn't she entitled to be regarded as one of the suspects, no more likely to be guilty than any of the others? And who else knew? Had Chandler-Powell been told? Had Sharon confided in anyone at the Manor, and, if so, in whom? Had Rhoda Gradwyn suspected Sharon's identity from the first and was that why she had stayed on? Had she threatened exposure and, if so, had Sharon, or perhaps someone else who knew the truth, taken steps to stop her? And if they arrested someone else, wouldn't the very presence of a convicted murderer at the Manor influence the Crown Prosecution Service in deciding whether the case would stand up in court? The thoughts seemed to tumble in her mind, but she didn't voice them. With Dalgliesh she was always careful not to state the obvious.

Now Dalgliesh said, “This year we've had the separation of functions in the Home Office, but I think I've got the changes more or less clear in my mind. Since May the new Ministry of Justice became responsible for the National Offender Management Service, and the probation officers who undertake the supervision are now called ‘offender managers.' Sharon will certainly have one. I'll have to check that I've got the facts right, but my understanding is that an offender has to spend at least four trouble-free years in the community before the supervision is lifted, and even then the licence remains in force for life, so that a lifer is eligible to be recalled at any point.”

Kate said, “But surely Sharon has a legal obligation to inform her PO that she's become involved, even if innocent, in a case of murder?”

“Certainly she should have done, but if she hasn't, the National Offender Management Service will learn about it tomorrow, when the news breaks. Sharon should also have told them about her change of job. Whether or not she has been in touch with her supervisor, it's certainly my responsibility to inform the probation service and theirs to provide a report for the Ministry of Justice. It's the probation service, not the police, who must handle the information and make decisions on a need-to-know basis.”

Kate said, “So we say and do nothing until Sharon's supervisor takes over? But don't we need to interview her again? This alters her status in the investigation.”

“Obviously it's important for the supervising officer to be present when we do question Sharon, and I'd like that to be tomorrow, if possible. Sunday isn't the best day to get this set up, but I can probably get in touch with the supervising officer through the duty officer at the Ministry of Justice. I'll phone Benton. I need to have Sharon watched but it has to be done with complete discretion. While I get this set up, could you continue looking through the files here? I'll phone from the dining room downstairs. It may take some time.”

Left alone, Kate settled again to the files. She knew that Dalgliesh had left her so that she could be undisturbed and it would indeed have been difficult to sort conscientiously through the remaining boxes without listening to what he was saying.

Half an hour later she heard Dalgliesh's foot on the stairs. Coming in, he said, “That was rather quicker than I feared. There were the general hoops to be jumped through but I got the supervising probation officer in the end. A Mrs. Madeleine Rayner. Fortunately, she lives in London, and I caught her just as she was leaving for a family lunch. She'll come to Wareham tomorrow by an early train, and I'll arrange for Benton to meet her and bring her straight to the Old Police Cottage. If possible I want her visit to be unnoticed. She seems convinced that Sharon needs no particular supervision and isn't a danger, but the sooner she leaves the Manor the better.”

Kate asked, “Are you thinking of going back to Dorset now, sir?”

“No. There's nothing to be done about Sharon until Mrs. Rayner arrives tomorrow. We'll go on to Droughton and clear up the matter of the car. We'll take the copy of the will, the file about Sharon and the article on plagiarism, but I think that's all, unless you've found anything else relevant.”

Kate said, “Nothing that's new to us, sir. There's an article about the huge losses suffered by the Lloyd's Names in the early
1990
s. Miss Cressett told us that Sir Nicholas was among them and was forced to sell Cheverell Manor. The best pictures were apparently sold separately. There's a picture of the Manor and one of Sir Nicholas. The article isn't particularly kind to the Names, but I can't see it as a possible motive for murder. We know that Helena Cressett wasn't especially anxious to have Miss Gradwyn under her roof. Shall I put this article with the rest of the papers?”

“Yes, I think we should have anything she wrote which relates to the Manor. But I agree. The article on the Names is hardly a credible motive for anything more dangerous than a cool reception when Miss Gradwyn arrived. I've been looking through the box of correspondence with her agent. It seems she was thinking of cutting down on the journalism and writing a biography. It might be helpful to see her agent, but that can wait. Anyway, add any relevant letters, will you, Kate, and we'll need to write a list for Macklefield of what we've taken, but that can be done later.”

He took a large exhibit bag from his case and got the papers together while Kate went to the kitchen and washed up the mug and toothbrush holder, quickly checking that anything she had disturbed was now back in its place. Rejoining Dalgliesh, she sensed that he had liked the house, that he had been tempted to revisit the rooftop, that it was in this unencumbered seclusion that he, too, could happily live and work. But it was with relief that she stood again in Absolution Alley and watched in silence as he closed and double-locked the door.

2

Benton thought it unlikely that Robin Boyton would be an early riser and it was after ten before he and DC Warren set off to walk to Rose Cottage. The cottage, like the adjoining one occupied by the Westhalls, was stone-walled under a slate roof. There was a garage to the left with standing for a car, and in front a small garden, mostly of low shrubs, cut by a narrow strip of crazy paving. The porch was covered with strong intertwined boughs, and a few tight and browning buds and a single pink rose in full bloom explained the name of the cottage. DC Warren pressed the brightly polished bell to the right of the door, but it was a full minute before Benton detected footfalls followed by the rasp of bolts being drawn and the click of the raised latch. The door was opened wide and Robin Boyton stood before them, unmoving and seeming deliberately to block their entrance. There was a moment of uneasy silence before he stood aside and said, “You'd better come in. I'm in the kitchen.”

They entered a small square hall, unfurnished except for an oak bench next to uncarpeted wooden stairs. The door to the left was open, and the glimpse of easy chairs, a sofa, a polished circular table and what looked like a range of watercolours on the far wall suggested that this was the sitting room. They followed Boyton through the open door to the right. The room stretched the length of the cottage and was full of light. At the garden end was the kitchen, with a double sink, a green Aga, a central working surface, and a dining area with an oak rectangular table and six chairs. Against the wall facing the door a large dresser with cupboards held a miscellany of jugs, mugs and plates; the space under the front window had been furnished with a coffee table and four low chairs, all old and none matching.

Taking control, Benton introduced DC Warren and himself, then moved towards the table. He said, “Shall we sit here?” and seated himself with his back to the garden. He said, “Perhaps you would sit opposite, Mr. Boyton,” leaving Boyton no choice but to take the facing chair, with the light from the windows full on his face.

He was still under some strong emotion, whether grief, fear or perhaps a mixture of both, and looked as if he hadn't slept. His skin was drab, the forehead beaded with sweat, and the blue eyes darkly shrouded. But he had recently shaved and Benton detected a confusion of smells—soap, aftershave and, when Boyton spoke, a trace of alcohol on his breath. He had managed in the short time since his arrival to make the room look untidy and dirty. The draining board was piled with food-encrusted plates and smeared glasses and the sink held a couple of saucepans, while his long black coat hanging over the back of a chair, a pair of muddy trainers near the French window and open newspapers strewn on the coffee table completed the air of general dishevelment, a room temporarily occupied but without pleasure.

Looking at Boyton, Benton thought that his was a face that would always be memorable: the strong waves of yellow hair falling without artifice over the forehead, the remarkable eyes, the strong perfect curve of the lips. But it wasn't beauty which could withstand tiredness, sickness or fear. Already there were signs of incipient decadence in a draining of vitality, the pouches under the eyes, a slackness of the muscles round the mouth. But if he had fortified himself for the ordeal, when he spoke it was without slurring.

Now, turning, he gestured towards the stove and said, “Coffee? Tea? I haven't had breakfast. In fact, I can't remember when I last ate, but I mustn't waste police time. Or would a mug of coffee count as bribery and corruption?”

Benton said, “Are you saying you aren't fit to be questioned?”

“I'm as fit as I'm likely to be, given the circumstances. I expect you take murder in your stride, Sergeant—it was ‘Sergeant,' wasn't it?”

“Detective Sergeant Benton-Smith and Detective Constable Warren.”

“The rest of us find murder distressing, especially when the victim is a friend, but of course you're only doing your job, an excuse these days for practically anything. I expect you want to take down my particulars—that sounds indecent—my full name and address, if the Westhalls haven't already provided it. I had a flat but I had to give it up—a little difficulty with the landlord about the rent—so I'm lodging with my business partner in his house in Maida Vale.”

He gave his address and watched while Constable Warren wrote it down, his huge hand moving with deliberation over the notebook.

Benton asked, “And what job do you do, Mr. Boyton?”

“You can put me down as an actor. I have an Equity card, and from time to time, given the opportunity, I act. I'm also what you might call an entrepreneur. I get ideas. Some of them work and some of them don't. When I'm not acting and have no bright ideas, I get help from my friends. And if that fails, I look to a benevolent government for what is laughingly called the Job Seeker's Allowance.”

Benton asked, “What are you doing here?”

“What do you mean? I've rented the cottage. I've paid for it. I'm on holiday. That's what I'm doing here.”

“But why at this time? December can't be the most propitious month for a holiday.”

The blue eyes fixed on Benton's. “I could ask you what you're doing here. I look more at home than you do, Sergeant. The voice so very English, the face so very—well—Indian. Still, it must have helped you to get taken on. It can't be easy, the job you've chosen—not easy for your colleagues, I mean. One disrespectful or disobliging word about your colour and they'd find themselves sacked or hauled up before one of those race-relations tribunals. Hardly part of the police-canteen culture, are you? Not one of the boys. Can't be easy to cope with.”

Malcolm Warren looked up and gave an almost imperceptible shake of the head as if deploring one more example of the propensity of people in a hole to go on digging, then returned to his notebook, his hand again moving slowly across the page.

Benton said calmly, “Will you answer my question, please? I'll put it differently. Why are you here at this particular time?”

“Because Miss Gradwyn asked me to come. She booked in for an operation which would be life-changing for her, and she wanted to have a friend here to join her for her week's convalescence. I come to this cottage fairly regularly, as no doubt my cousins have told you. It was probably because the assistant surgeon, Marcus, is my cousin and I recommended the Manor that Rhoda came here. Anyway, she said she needed me, so I came. Does that answer your question?”

“Not entirely, Mr. Boyton. If she was so anxious to have you here, why did she make it plain to Mr. Chandler-Powell that she didn't want any visitors? That's what he says. Are you accusing him of lying?”

“Don't put words into my mouth, Sergeant. She may have changed her mind, although I don't think it likely. She may not have wanted me to see her until the bandages were off and the scar healed, or the great George might have thought it medically unwise for her to have visitors and put a stop to it. How should I know what happened? I only know she asked me to come and I was going to stay here until she left.”

“But you sent her a text message, didn't you? We found it on her mobile.
Something very important has cropped up. I need to consult you.
Please see me, please don't shut me out.
What was this very important matter?”

There was no reply. Boyton covered his face with his hands. The gesture might, Benton thought, be an attempt to conceal a wave of emotion, but it was also a convenient way of marshalling his thoughts. After a few moments' silence Benton said, “And did you see her to discuss this important matter at any time after she arrived here?”

Boyton spoke through his hands. “How could I? You know I didn't. They wouldn't let me into the Manor before or after the operation. And by Saturday morning she was dead.”

“I have to ask you again, Mr. Boyton, what was this important matter?”

And now Boyton was looking at Benton, his voice controlled. “It wasn't really important. I tried to make it sound as if it was. It was about money. My partner and I need another house for our business, and a suitable one has come on the market. It would be a really good investment for Rhoda and I hoped she'd help. With the scar gone and a new life before her, she might have been interested.”

“And I suppose your partner can confirm this?”

“About the house? Yes, he could, but I don't see why you should ask him. I didn't tell him I was going to approach Rhoda. None of this is your business.”

Benton said, “We're investigating a murder, Mr. Boyton. Everything is our business, and if you cared for Miss Gradwyn and want to see her killer caught, you can help best by answering our questions fully and truthfully. No doubt you'll be anxious now to get back to London and your entrepreneurial activities?”

“No, I booked for a week and I'm staying for a week. That's what I said I'd do, and I owe it to Rhoda. I want to find out what's going on here.”

The answer surprised Benton. Most suspects, unless they actively enjoy involvement with violent death, are anxious to put as much distance between themselves and the crime as possible. It was convenient to have Boyton here in the cottage, but he had expected his suspect to protest that they couldn't legally hold him and that he needed to get back to London.

He asked, “How long have you known Rhoda Gradwyn and how did you meet?”

“We met about six years ago, after a not very successful fringe-theatre production of
Waiting for Godot.
I'd just left drama school. We met at a drinks party afterwards. A gruesome occasion, but a lucky one for me. We talked. I asked her to have dinner the following week, and to my surprise she agreed. After that we met from time to time, not frequently, but always with pleasure, at least as far as I'm concerned. I've told you, she was my friend, a dear friend, and one of those who helped me when there was no acting job and I had no lucrative ideas. Not often and not much. She always paid for dinner when we met. I can't make you understand, and I don't see why I should try. It's not your business. I loved her. I don't mean I was in love with her, I mean I loved her. I depended on seeing her. I liked to think she was in my life. I don't think she loved me, but she usually saw me when I asked. I could talk to her. It wasn't maternal and it wasn't about sex, but it was love. And now one of those bastards at the Manor has killed her and I'm not leaving here until I know who. And I'm not answering any more questions about her. What we felt, we felt. It's nothing to do with why or how she died. And if I could explain, you wouldn't understand. You'd only laugh.” He was beginning to cry, making no attempt to stem the flow of tears.

Benton said “Why should we laugh about love?” and thought,
Oh
God, it sounds like some ghastly ditty. Why should we laugh about love? Why,
oh why, should we laugh about love?
He could almost hear a cheerfully banal tune insinuating itself into his brain. It might do well at the Eurovision Song Contest. Looking across at Boyton's disintegrating face, he thought,
The emotion is real enough, but what exactly is it?

He asked more gently, “Can you tell us what you did from the moment you arrived at Stoke Cheverell? When was that?”

Boyton managed to control himself, and more quickly than Benton had expected. Looking at Boyton's face, he wondered whether this swift alteration was the actor demonstrating his range of emotions. “On Thursday night at about ten o'clock. I drove down from London.”

“So Miss Gradwyn didn't ask you to drive her down?”

“No, she didn't, and I didn't expect her to. She likes driving, not being driven. Anyway, she needed to be here early for examinations and so on, and I couldn't get away until the evening. I brought some food with me for breakfast on Friday, but otherwise I thought I'd shop locally for what I needed. I rang the Manor to say I'd arrived and to enquire after Rhoda and was told she was sleeping. I asked when I could see her and I was told by Sister Holland that she had specifically asked for no visitors, so I let it rest. I did consider calling in on my cousins—they're next door, in Stone Cottage, and the lights were on—but I didn't think they'd exactly welcome me, particularly after ten at night. I watched TV for an hour and went to bed. On Friday I'm afraid I slept in, so it's no good asking me about anything before eleven; then I phoned the Manor again and was told that the operation had gone well and Rhoda was recovering. They repeated that she didn't want visitors. I had lunch at about two in the village pub and afterwards went for a drive and did some shopping. Then I came back here and was in all evening. On Saturday I found out about Rhoda's murder when I saw the police cars arriving and tried to get into the Manor. In the end I managed to push past PC Plod on the door and broke into the cosy little set-up your boss had arranged. But you know all about that.”

Benton asked, “Did you at any time enter the Manor before you forced your way in on Saturday afternoon?”

“No. I thought I'd made that plain.”

“What were your movements from four-thirty on Friday afternoon until Saturday afternoon when you learnt about the murder? I'm asking in particular if you went out at any time during Friday night. It's very important. You might have seen something or someone.”

“I told you, I didn't go out, and as I didn't go out, I saw nothing and nobody. I was in bed by eleven.”

“No cars? No one arriving late at night or early Saturday morning?”

“Arriving where? I've told you. I was in bed by eleven. I was drunk, if you must know. I suppose if a tank had crashed through the front door I might have heard it, but I doubt I could have made it downstairs.”

“But then there's Friday afternoon, after you'd had a drink and lunch at the Cressett Arms. Didn't you visit a cottage near the junction with the main road, the one set back from the road with a long front garden? It's called Rosemary Cottage?”