"What did he ask you, Anna?" Poppy asked curiously when her friend returned with apparent unconcern, as if the interrogation had not been unpleasant at all.
"It was okay," Anna said in relief. "I don't think he thinks I did it. Edwin, can you go next? He asked for you."
"Edwin?" Sebastian asked with a frown. He had been feeling ignored for a while now, but he had assumed that all ladies were asked in first because that was some standard of politeness unknown to him. Now, however, Edwin was requested next and who was Edwin? He was not a Hargreaves. "Poppy and I are the only relatives here. Why is he skipping me? Don't you think relatives should go first? Edwin, let me go. Maybe he doesn't know who I am."
Edwin had got to his feet, but now he hesitated. Sebastian might have a point. Relatives should be seen first. That was only polite. Yet he did not really believe that the police did not know Sebastian's last name. All their names, addresses and occupations had been taken down earlier. He did not want to upset Sebastian and it did not matter to himself one way or the other, so he shrugged and sat down again. "Whatever."
He supposed Sebastian had to make up for all those times that he had felt less important than the rest because he was not well-known. There was probably something annoying about going into the village together and not getting any attention. Come to think of it, the last time they had gone the girls had only had eyes for himself and not for Sebastian. It had not bothered himself obviously, but he could see that Sebastian would jump at the chance to be more important for once, no matter how ridiculous this was.
It was Margaret's prerogative to comment on the ridiculous and he expected her to seize the opportunity. Where was she? He did not see her. Then he remembered she had left the room and she had never come back.
"Excuse me, sir. This is not Mr Symonds," Randall spoke up when the wrong man appeared in the interview room. She was not sure that Scott would be able to tell the difference if he never watched any television. She guessed he must be Hargreaves. Moss was probably older. Anna had said he was old and ugly. There had to be a small amount of truth in that, even though he might be no more than forty.
"It is not?"
"I'm Sebastian Hargreaves," said the man rather pompously. "I'm related to the deceased and I don't understand why you keep interrogating people before me who aren't related to Nigel in any way. Shouldn't it be family first? Because we've suffered a loss?"
"Not at all," Scott replied. He never allowed himself to be ordered around by suspects. He was in charge, not they. "I decide on the order around here, Mr Hargreaves, and I've decided I want to speak to Mr Symonds first. Please return to the sitting room until I send for you and ask Mr Symonds to come here."
"But…" Sebastian had clearly not expected to be dismissed. He looked incredulous. "Aren't you listening to me?"
"I am listening to you, Mr Hargreaves, and my answer is the following. Please return to the sitting room until I send for you. Kindly ask Mr Symonds to see me next." Scott was not going to let the suspects take over here and make up their own rules.
He took a short break from the interview room and ran into the policeman in the hall. "Sir," said the young officer respectfully. "Something happened."
"What was it?"
"One of the ladies, sir, she left the room. You were busy, sir, so I didn't disturb you."
"Well, if the lady returned to the room I see no reason why you should have asked me if she could take a break," Scott remarked. He did not want to be informed of every visit to the loo.
"S-S-She didn't."
He narrowed his eyes. "She did not return?"
"I'm still waiting, sir, but I don't think she will." The young policeman shuffled his feet. "She said she was going to her room because she couldn’t stand the stupidity. I didn't dare to send her back. She would have…have…have…" He gulped. " She said she wasn't going to leave, but that you could find her in her room if you needed her."
"Which lady?" Scott thought he already knew the answer. There was only one who would dare.
"Miss Maxwell, sir."
"You may disturb me if Miss Maxwell leaves the house. And next time Miss Maxwell feels like ignoring my orders, you may tell her that she can come to tell me about it personally."
The policeman nodded furiously, but he had no plans to obey. He was sure the lady would bite his head off if he opened his mouth.
Edwin Symonds appeared a minute later. "I'm sorry," he apologised right away. "It wasn't my idea to let him go first. He insisted and it didn't matter to me when I went."
"That's all right, Mr Symonds," Scott answered. Now that the man was before him, he indeed looked familiar, but only because he ought to be. Should he pass him in the street, he would never notice. It looked like a perfectly friendly man, perhaps a little too popular, with the ladies especially. "I never got that impression. Please take a seat. I'd like to ask you some questions about yesterday afternoon. What happened after tea?"
"We'd been lying by the poolside all afternoon and we went back. I was with Sebastian, Poppy and Anna."
It was remarkable that while none of them women had seemed to care that they had had no company to prove their alibis, Symonds stressed this right away. "Until what time did you stay there?"
"Oh, er…let me see. It was nearly a quarter past six when I looked at my watch and knowing how long the girls take to make themselves presentable, I thought it might be wise if they went upstairs immediately."
More than one girl? "Was Poppy with you then?" Poppy had been with Margaret after tea, according to both women. Poppy had not said she had returned to the pool after the session with Margaret. Anna had not mentioned her either.
Edwin frowned. "Poppy? Oh no, you're right, she wasn't. One day looks so much like another around here. Sorry. Yesterday Nigel ordered Maggie to go over some things with Poppy after tea. They usually do that in the morning only and a bit after dinner sometimes, but Maggie was due to leave today, so I suppose Nigel had some last ideas he wanted her to work on. But still. Forty-five minutes to get ready is difficult for Anna as well, so it doesn't really matter whether Poppy was there or not."
Scott accepted that explanation for the moment. If all they did was lie by the poolside it might indeed be difficult to distinguish one afternoon from another. "And you all went upstairs. Why did you and Sebastian go too if only the girls need so much time to get changed?"
"Otherwise Anna wouldn't go, of course. The girls are silly like that."
"Did you see the two others go into their rooms?"
"I don't recall not seeing that, so I must have." Edwin closed his eyes and tried to remember. "We made some last remarks standing in front of our respective doors. I remember wondering if Poppy was already in her room and up for a quick cuddle, but then I decided it wasn't worth the trouble because she'd make a fuss over not having enough time to get dressed, so I didn’t go to check."
Scott raised his eyebrows at this revelation. Poppy had not mentioned that she was involved with Symonds. "Are you and Miss Hargreaves in a relationship, Mr Symonds?"
Edwin gave a charming shrug. "Nothing permanent, Inspector. Strictly occasional. I don't want all the fuss. You know how it is with women. They always make a fuss."
Scott did not answer that he knew how it was with women. He wondered if this was one of the unreal relationships Margaret Maxwell did not keep up with. "So instead of going for the cuddle you went to get dressed yourself."
"Yes, showered and dressed. I went downstairs around seven and was the first there, but someone rang me on my mobile and I went out on the terrace to have a better reception. When I got back into the room, Arthur and Maggie were there and Poppy came shortly after."
"He's a bit of a player, isn't he, sir?" Randall frowned somewhat disapprovingly, remembering Symonds' comment about women and the fuss they always made.
"Indeed, but I thought women fell for that. Don't they? Hmm." He would be interested in hearing if Edwin Symonds had now fallen from grace in Randall's eyes. Fame was not everything. "Forty-five minutes. Is that a normal time for someone to need to get dressed?"
"It seems a bit long, but it's the shortest we've heard about so far," she pointed out. "And he did say the time was meant for Anna. All the other women took much longer. And even Anna didn't take forty-five minutes because she was also on the phone in the meantime."
"He didn't tell us much of what happened after he decided not to see Poppy." Scott's mind wandered off to the possibility that Edwin had chosen to visit Clarissa Edmondson instead. It would not matter much to Edwin, by the sound of it.
"No one told us very much. I wonder if Arthur Moss will be any different. He was not with anyone we have spoken to so far. You'd expect some of these people to have run into each other while going in and out of their rooms, but that doesn't seem to be the case. Odd."
Arthur Moss was a high-ranking television executive. He was in his fifties and he wore a suit and tie, despite the weather. Scott wondered if he did so all the time or if this was done with the sole reason to convince the police of his importance. It was hot outside and if Scott had not been working, he would not have worn a suit himself either.
"I spoke with Nigel very briefly after tea. He urged me to persuade my American business associates that Poppy was perfect to host this new concept we're considering," said Moss when he was asked what he had done after tea.
"Which is?"
"It's a secret. I can't tell you, I'm sorry. Millions are involved and other companies might run off with our idea if it leaked out too soon."
Scott had no idea if it things truly worked out that way, or if Moss was exaggerating his own importance. He wondered if the project was indeed so impressive that it warranted such secrecy. "But Nigel Hargreaves knew about it." Perhaps that was because of Hargreaves' millions.
"He promised to invest a few millions in the project, but only if we gave Poppy a chance at stardom." Moss paused and sighed. "That was really difficult. I know a good concept when I see one and this one was good, believe me, but I also know a failure when I see one and Poppy was going to be one. But…no Poppy, no Nigel and no Nigel, no money…and he was our main investor."
"I can see some diplomacy was required there. But if Poppy was a guaranteed failure, why still consider the project?" The way Scott saw it, the project would be a guaranteed failure as a result. Why would someone still be keen on carrying it through?
Moss looked apologetic. "If you get a good idea you want to carry it out and you can't stop thinking about it. What I was trying to do was to get Nigel interested in the main project, while also trying to make him see that Poppy would be better off trying her luck at something smaller, a tried and tested formula. If she screws up a totally new concept, chances are great that the public will never be interested in that concept again and investors will be hesitant towards anything I propose. I was trying to get Nigel interested in trying out the concept with another presenter first and when it proved successful, to replace him or her by Poppy -- to get Poppy into an existing formula as a kind of damage control."
That made more sense. There had been no reason for Moss to wish the man dead in that case. "And now?"
"We'll have to put the project back on the shelf for a while until we find a new investor willing to take the risks that come with a totally new concept. It's a pretty costly project and if there aren't any rewards… There's so much competition that hardly anyone would take such a large risk. And we have to be careful, because if we’re too open, someone else will steal the idea before we get the chance to develop it."
"But you no longer have the Poppy problem now that Hargreaves is dead."
"No, but we also don't have any funds, so we have to look for new sources very carefully, like I said." Moss looked a bit impatient when Scott did not seem to understand the need for total secrecy.
"Out of curiosity, were you thinking of any other presenters in particular?" Coincidentally, or perhaps not, there were two of them in the house. He did not know where such deals were closed. Neither Symonds nor Margaret Maxwell had mentioned anything about it.
Moss nodded gravely. "I was. Edwin Symonds or Margaret Maxwell would both be a success, I am sure of it."
And they were both here. Were they here because of Moss, or was Moss here because of them? "Were they interested?"
"Margaret was not. Edwin was."
"Is that one of the reasons why they were here?" Scott asked. If so, the situation was a trifle more complicated than he had first assumed. He was glad to hear that Margaret had not been interested in the mysterious project, because it would have given her a motive. It certainly gave Edwin a motive. If he was after that show, Nigel was in his way. Simply disposing of Nigel would not be of much help to Edwin, however, for it would also dispose of the necessary funding. Suppose Edwin had been trying to change Nigel's mind as well?
"Margaret was training Poppy, as she has probably told you. Edwin has his own agenda."
"Involving Poppy Hargreaves?" It was possible that Nigel Hargreaves might be persuaded to invest in a project for Poppy's boyfriend as well, if he could not do so for Poppy herself.
"You could say that," Arthur Moss agreed. "They seem to be an item."
This was not the first time today that Scott felt he was not being told everything. Poppy Hargreaves had held back, Margaret Maxwell had, Clarissa Edmondson had, Edwin Symonds might have, and now Arthur Moss. Only Anna Edmondson had seemed to tell him everything she knew, but ironically she was the one who knew least. "Were they already an item before this project came up?"
"I couldn't say, but it seems unlikely."
"All right," said Scott, getting back to his first question. People in this house were inconveniently discreet about other people’s relationships. He usually met with more willingness to discuss amorous adventures and the compatibility of couples. But, knowing there was more to find out also posed a good challenge. "After tea you briefly spoke with Hargreaves. How briefly? What time did you leave him and where?"
"I left him close to half past four. We'd been in here, in his study. He told me he had an appointment with someone else at four thirty – so in fact he dismissed me."
That was interesting. "With whom did he have that appointment?" Someone from the house or an outsider? Although an outsider would not be as likely to murder Hargreaves in his bath if he met him in his study and he might not be connected to the murder. Which guest could it have been instead? No one had so far mentioned talking to Hargreaves and the only one left to be questioned had been accounted for by two others. If it had been someone from the house, he or she had lied and it had to be one of the women, but not Anna.
"I did not ask. I'm sorry. I left him and went to my room to confer with a business associate by phone, which lasted rather long. I sent some quick emails as well."
"From your room?" He supposed Hargreaves was rich enough to have installed this facility throughout the house. It made him wonder if emailing was possible from his own room as well. It would be useful for communicating with his headquarters.
"Nigel told me that it’s possible from two or three rooms. I have one of them and I think Margaret does. She sent me an email last night, so I suppose she did so from her room."
"Could we check your computer?" Scott nodded at Randall to take a note. They should also check what Margaret had sent and when.
"Of course. The emails should still be under sent items." Moss did not appear concerned. "I'll take care not to delete them until you've checked."
"Did you leave your room at any point before going down for dinner?"
"No, I did not. I did not leave until seven o'clock sharp. I would have arrived at the dining room a minute later. It doesn’t take that long. Not longer than a minute or two, at any rate."
"Was anyone there already?" Someone claimed to have gone down before Moss -- Edwin Symonds.
"I seemed to be the first and poured myself a drink. Then Margaret came and we talked about the project, and Edwin came in through the French doors with his phone."
That tallied with Symonds’ own account. "Had he been out there all the time?" Perhaps Symonds had made a remark to that effect.
"Possibly. I didn't check the terrace when I came in. I headed straight for the drinks," Moss apologised. "I'd had a rather strenuous discussion with my business associate. We'd been trying to convince each other of what we thought was best. I really needed to unwind. I just sat in one of the lazy chairs in the corner with my eyes closed, savouring the brandy. I suppose if someone had been really quiet they might even have come in without me noticing them. I certainly didn't pay any attention to the terrace."
"Thank you, Mr Moss. That'll be all for the moment." Perhaps some questions would be raised later. He could not think of everything at once.
"Would Edwin Symonds have done it, sir?" Randall asked, scanning her notes. He wanted that show, whatever it was, even though he had not spoken about it.
Scott shook his head thoughtfully. "He would have benefited more from a live Hargreaves. They couldn't do anything without that money. Moss didn't mention other possible investors, so they were stuck on Hargreaves. Edwin couldn't do anything without convincing Poppy and Nigel that it would be a better job for him than for Poppy. He didn't stand to gain anything from Hargreaves' death, as far as I can see."
"And Margaret Maxwell?"
"Maybe she would have the most influence over either, but Moss says she wasn't interested. She herself told us Hargreaves had promised to fund a programme she'd really like to do."
Randall voiced what he was also wondering. "It might be the same programme and she could have lied to Moss."
He did not believe that. "That doesn't make sense. Moss is not in the race himself. There was no need to lie to him about her wishes."
"Sir, does Hargreaves have the money to fund all these different programmes?" It seemed to Randall that he would need several millions. While the man had been rich, had he been that rich and had he been willing to gamble with his fortune?
"I'm thinking Margaret Maxwell wants to do something out of the ordinary, or else she would have got the idea funded already. If it was a big hit, she would have managed. Perhaps it's not for such a large audience. It might not cost that much. Not as much as Moss' concept anyway." Still, it would be a project with uncertain returns, just like Moss’ idea.
"So…" Randall recapitulated. "We are stuck with a load of subjects who'd all have been better off with Hargreaves being alive and none of whom had an apparent motive. So who killed him? Was he killed at all? Wasn’t it an accident? Yes, I know. It’s hard to have an accident with a CD player."
"We still have one to go -- Sebastian Hargreaves, the impatient relative. Notice how he didn’t specify the exact relationship?" Scott asked. People with money always had distant relatives sponging off them. "Which means it's probably very distant. A third cousin of sorts who just happens to carry the same family name. Mind you," he continued in a very grave voice, realising something all of a sudden. "If the money all goes to Poppy now, it's entirely hers to dispose of. She might invest in Moss' project with a starring role for herself." Although it had not sounded as if Nigel had been in her way very much, he had been hesitant nevertheless. "Or for any other presenter she likes." Such as Edwin Symonds.
"Would she have the brain power to have actually thought of that beforehand?" Randall said doubtfully. "Oh, and do you believe Moss when he said he didn't look out onto the terrace?"
"His story seemed plausible," Scott said with caution. He could imagine that after a lengthy phone conversation one would need some time to relax and think it over. Moss might indeed have closed his eyes while sipping his drink. "Symonds must have moved away from the direct vicinity of the door. He might even have gone onto the lawn. Moss would have certainly seen him had he stood in front of the window, but one rarely stands still with a mobile phone."
"So we don't know for sure if Edwin Symonds was there first at all."
"No. He might have left the house through another exit."
"Symonds went downstairs around seven o'clock," Randall read up.
"That's too vague. It couldn’t have been after seven, or else Moss would have run into him for sure," Scott decided. "Note down that we ask him about the precise time, Randall. Around seven o'clock might even be as early as ten to seven, which would have given him more than ten minutes, maybe even fifteen. He didn't get back until after Margaret got there. Assuming all clocks are correct except the dining room clock, she would have got there at six past seven."
Randall had another point to bring up. "But Hargreaves wouldn’t have been still in his bath at ten to seven, sir. He would need more time than that, wouldn’t he? And he was not usually late. Ten past seven, I heard. That was his usual time. So whatever Symonds did on the terrace or elsewhere, it couldn't have been killing Hargreaves. Not at that point in time. But if he'd killed Hargreaves earlier, there was no point in going onto the terrace unless he was really on the phone. So he was really on the phone. Otherwise he would have wanted to be seen by as many people as possible."
Scott had been scribbling down some notes. "Hmm," he answered absentmindedly. "Indeed. Let's see what Sebastian Hargreaves has to say."
Sebastian Hargreaves still looked impatient and insulted when he came in. "What was your precise relationship to the deceased?" Scott inquired, not offering any apologies for the order in which he questioned suspects. That was his decision alone and no pouting or demanding suspect could interfere with it. The only thing they accomplished was a brief mental note about their attitude.
"He was a cousin of my father's." The man did not seem to realise that family relationship was not proportional to his attitude, but he exuded self-importance.
It was as Scott had thought. Not a very close relationship, but Sebastian had very little else going for him. He had neither the face not the figure to impress. He would not stand out compared to Symonds, for instance, so it was no wonder that he took pride in this vague connection. "A first cousin?"
"Yes, Inspector."
"And so this was a family visit?" Scott did not assume that Nigel's cousin's son would live here. He would have to look at the Hargreaves family tree to see how many other Hargreaves there were. If there were many other family members, Sebastian's closeness to Nigel was a bit strange. If there were none, it was more understandable. Nigel only had one child, but he might have siblings and nephews and nieces.
Sebastian shrugged. "Yes, sort of. Poppy told me Edwin and Anna were coming and the four of us always get along pretty well, so she invited me over too."
"Aren't you and Mr Symonds a bit older than the two girls?" There should be at least ten to fifteen years between them, Scott estimated. The men were in their thirties, the girls in their twenties. Sebastian could never be a childhood friend of Poppy's.
If Iain Scott ever took some days off it was because he had something constructive to do, but apparently all of these people had the time to lounge around a pool for a few days. Their professions were listed, except Margaret Maxwell's, oddly enough the only one who was here to work. He had not noticed that before. Sebastian Hargreaves had indicated that he was in the computer business, whatever that might mean. Was there anyone nowadays who was not in the computer business?
"Yes, but we are good friends nonetheless. It's possible. They're very pretty girls."
Out of the corner of his eye Scott could see Randall make an irritated movement and he suppressed a smile. No, that was not the sort of comment that went down well with her. "What did you do after tea yesterday, Mr Hargreaves?" This was not the time to decide whether the friendship was meaningful or not. Randall would have something to say about it later, undoubtedly. Perhaps he could direct her towards Miss Maxwell, whose opinions on the distinction between real and unreal relationships would appeal to Randall, so they could rant together. He suspected that they would enjoy it immensely.
"We went back to the pool to lie in the sun some more. At some point Edwin said we should get dressed for dinner because it was time, so we all went upstairs. In my room I noticed it was a bit early still, so I had a long bath. It was a bit too long, because suddenly it was ten past seven and I still had to dress myself. I hurried and then checked if Anna had left yet. She's next door to me and I'd heard her talking on the phone earlier, so I didn't think she was gone yet and she wasn't. We went downstairs together and we were the last. You should always avoid coming in last, so that's why I went to get Anna. It's not so bad if there are two of you. I know Margaret put the clock back there the other day, but that was only two minutes."
"What did she do that for?" He recalled the grin with which she had told him the clock in the dining room ran behind.
"So it looks like it's a quarter past seven when in fact it's a bit later. She was two minutes late the other day."
"And what happened?"
"Nigel told her he didn't appreciate such bad manners. I couldn't hear what she said in reply, but it was effective. I guess she gave him a taste of what real bad manners look like."
Hargreaves' behaviour in this case might be indicative. He might often have acted like this. "Was he a bit of a tyrant then?" Tyrants were often wished dead, even though nobody had so far betrayed any dislike of the man. The general mood appeared to be indifferent, but on the first day after the murder people often behaved strangely.
"No, he just liked people to be on time. The girls can be slow and we often have to wait for them."
"Well, that was helpful," Randall commented. She was always the first to open her mouth after a suspect had left the room. Scott was usually too lost in thought to speak immediately. "He didn't tell us anything we didn't already know."
"What is their obsession with taking showers and baths?" Scott said in a dissatisfied voice. "Hardly anyone has an alibi because everyone was in the bath -- alone. And the rest were using a mobile phone. Everyone was alone between a quarter past six and seven. They could all have left their rooms."
"We could check with the phone companies."
They could indeed, but was that at all helpful or conclusive? "Who says they didn't go into Hargreaves' bathroom with their phone in hand?"
"Sir. That seems unlikely."
"It would be a superb alibi. We need to make a table of events. Who claimed to be where at which moment. Someone is lying. No one told us they left their room to murder Hargreaves and yet someone did."
| Nigel | Poppy | Sebastian | Edwin | Margaret | Arthur | Clarissa | Anna | |
| ACCOUNTED FOR | 16:00-16:25 study Arthur | 16:00-?? library Margaret | 16:00-18:15 pool Edwin, Anna | 16:00-18:15 pool Sebastian, Anna | 16:00-?? library Poppy | 16:00-16:25 study Nigel | 16:00-18:15 pool Sebastian, Edwin | |
| UNACCOUNTED FOR | 16:30-?? visitor | ??-19:08 bedroom | 18:15-19:15 bedroom | 18:15-19:00 bedroom | ??-19:05 bedroom | 16:25-19:00 bedroom phone | 16:00-19:10 bedroom | 18:15-19:15 bedroom phone |
Scott surveyed the table and Randall looked over his shoulder. "Do you see anyone who doesn't have a gap in his alibi between a quarter past six and seven? We don't even know what time Nigel Hargreaves reached his room. The time of death was put between five and seven. At five o'clock three people were by the poolside. Why didn't Poppy join them, by the way? They didn't leave there until a quarter past six. And at five o'clock two people were already in their rooms -- Arthur and Clarissa."
"But not together." Moss had claimed to have phoned his associates. And Scott had not indicated Clarissa's tryst in the table.
"They might have been. Miss Maxwell reported that Clarissa had a visitor and Miss Maxwell might have been in her bedroom by five o'clock as well. She neglected to tell us when she went upstairs," he realised. But it was not a matter of her not having told him, it was a matter of his not having asked. Margaret and Poppy might have left the library by five. How long did it take to recite poems? Poppy would not be able to stand it for longer than half an hour, he suspected. There would be no cosy chatting in between -- it would be all instruction.
"You neglected to ask her to be specific, sir. Perhaps you had already decided she didn't do it," Randall remarked very innocently.
Scott ignored that. He was fallible, but he did not need to have that pointed out. "If Arthur Moss -- who was phoning, he said -- was not the visitor, the visitor couldn't have come until a quarter past six because the other two men were by the poolside. We should ask Miss Maxwell again. If it was earlier, it was Hargreaves himself."
"Shall I ask her or do you want to do that yourself, sir?"
"Where is Margaret?" asked Poppy. "She never came back." It was taking quite long for her absence to be a mere visit to the lavatory.
Edwin sighed tiredly. "You don't like Margaret. Be happy she's not her to taunt you." It was odd. Poppy did not usually like to speak or think about someone else for so long.
"I don't trust her. What if she's talking to the police?"
He shrugged. "Let her." As far as he knew, Sebastian was talking to them right now. Margaret would be doing something else. She was perfectly capable of entertaining herself -- and what could she possibly tell the police?
"She might be incriminating all of us."
"Poppy, really," Clarissa said in annoyance. She was glad her own daughter was not like this. She had brought her up with better manners. Now that Nigel was no longer with them, she could vent some of her irritation at last. Nigel had never liked criticism on Poppy.
"Poppy, Maggie is a friend of mine. I'd really like you to stop talking about her," Edwin said and he meant it. "Both of you are friends of mine. I am not going to take sides here, no matter what you say. I've known her for ages. You can't change my opinion of her, no matter what you invent."
"Unrequited love is really pathetic," Poppy answered. She was not very pleased with his answer. How could she be? He did not prefer her over Margaret. How could he not? Margaret was so old that she had presented a children's programme when Poppy had been young enough to watch. She would like to think of that period as very long ago, because she had been an adult for eons. Edwin had presented the show too, but it was different for men. Women went downhill after their thirtieth birthday, if not before, whereas men gained an extra attraction with all their experience.
And honestly, Maggie had no experience -- she had failed to become a woman of the world. Still invariably single, she had to Poppy's knowledge never tapped into the abundant supply of desirable men that were available to a television personality. Never had she excited the fancy of even the most boring of them. Poppy viewed it in smug contempt. She would be different. She would be celebrated. She would have the most gorgeous men by her side as she graced premiere after premiere with her presence.
Maggie did not deserve to be on TV. She did not care. She did not avail herself of all that was on offer. It was not fair. She had a big mouth, that was all.
Edwin glared at Poppy, but figured that denying anything she said was useless. Poppy was a bad listener. She was too focused on making her own point and she did not know what love was, let alone unrequited love. Fortunately nobody was interested in the conversation at all.
"You can have any woman except her. That must be tough." Her tone was almost sympathetic, but it was too sweet to be sincere.
If Margaret had not once said something along the same lines in Poppy's presence, Edwin might have felt impressed. Now he merely shrugged. He knew precisely what Margaret had meant when she had spoken those words. It had not been tough at all to hear them. In some matters Maggie and he were complete opposites, but that did not mean they could not along and people who got along could say anything they liked to each other.
"I'm convinced you don't really like her." Poppy sounded satisfied with her own conclusion. "I'm convinced you like someone else." She looked at him, expecting some confirmation. He should say that he liked her and everybody should hear it.
Edwin looked at the floor, deliberately, though it appeared as if he had not heard her.
"Does anyone know when we'll be released?" Clarissa inquired to change the subject before Poppy could repeat herself. She knew there had not been any information on this matter yet and no one could know more than she did, because they had all been kept in here. "I have to get back to work on Monday and I really have to, because I've run out of days." Nobody would care how many days she still had, but it at least it provided something for people to respond to. Arthur might.
"I have an important meeting on Monday as well," said Arthur, who sat up straighter when he heard work being mentioned. "I'm going to have to speak to the police about that. They're going to have to wrap this up before then."
"That policeman is kind of cute," said Poppy. "But he's a bit arrogant. I'm sure he plans to wrap it up really soon."
"I thought he was rather nice," Anna spoke up. "On TV they're always ugly old men."
"With a drinking problem," Edwin added. "Or some kind of problem at least. I suppose that's done to make them more human, because they're always hideously clever, of course. Most people don't like other people who are hideously clever." He glanced at Poppy, but she did not understand him. "So they have to have a flaw."
DCI Scott had finished the last of the preliminary interrogations. Earlier, he had been informed that Miss Maxwell had abandoned the rest, but he had not considered that important enough to interrupt the flow of the interviews, or even to tell Randall about it immediately, for she would surely have insisted that they go up and drag the lady downstairs.
However, it was his duty to check on all suspects and he went up to Miss Maxwell's room, after he had told Randall to question the house staff. He had ignored Randall's quirky smile and he did not ask himself why she had not expressed more indignation at not having been told about Miss Maxwell's desertion.
To his secret relief the bedroom door was wide open and Margaret Maxwell was there, typing away at a laptop. She gave him a quick nod to acknowledge his presence, but continued her work. "A favour, Detective Chief Inspector," she said when she looked up again, tucking her hair behind her ears. "Would you allow me to leave for half a day?" She had been thinking of making the request for while now, but she had not yet been able to imagine what his response would be.
Scott had been watching her, playing with his pen. He put it down on the dresser to think about the question. "Where do you want to go?" First she went upstairs without permission and now she wanted to leave? There was an end to his permissiveness, or at least there should be. If Randall did not speak up in this case, the other suspects certainly would.
"To my daughter's school. I had been hoping we'd be released today -- before the end of the school year, but that didn't work out. I was scheduled to leave this morning. It all fit. Now it doesn't." But because someone had to start murdering, her entire life was in chaos. No, that was something a dramatic person would say. She would sort it out calmly with the Inspector here. He came across as a reasonable man. He would understand.
He stared at her for a few seconds. "Your daughter, Miss Maxwell?" She had a daughter? That was surprising. She had told him she was Miss Maxwell, but he also recalled her telling him that Anna Edmondson was illegitimate. What significance had that remark had? Had it been ironic, given that Margaret was an unmarried parent herself? He had initially taken it as disapproval. Perhaps that had been wrong.
She swallowed upon hearing the emphasis, knowing why he did it, but she did not flinch. She did not want to explain, even though she saw his curiosity. First she had to solve this problem. "Yes. She finishes school today -- this afternoon. I need to pick her up at a certain time. I cannot arrange for anyone else to do so." She gestured at her mobile phone. "I've tried." She tried to look as if he had no choice but to allow her. Of course he did. He could refuse to grant her permission. But how could he do that to a child?
"Half a day?" He still needed to come to terms with the fact that she had a daughter. And he remembered that Edwin Symonds had mentioned that Margaret was originally going to leave today, so it was true and not an invention to get away from the inquiry.
She sensed he was not unwilling to grant her the permission and she relaxed. "It's a bit far, so I need a few hours. And I need another favour. I need to bring her here. She's too young to go home alone." And to stay alone. The murder inquiry had upset all her plans. "She can sleep with me and she won't be in your way. I'll keep her busy."
"A child? Here?" Scott frowned. "Do you think that advisable?"
"No, but I have no choice. My regular babysitters are abroad. All of them." She looked piqued at his question and she spoke rather snappily. No, of course she did not think a murder investigation an ideal setting for an eleven-year old, especially not this one. How could he even ask her that question? "What do you take me for? If I thought it advisable I would have come here next week, with her. "
He did not take her for anything bad. "Apart from the possible danger, I doubt the atmosphere and the guests here would be good for a child, whatever age she may be." Scott thought quickly what they could do instead. She would need a safe and friendly environment, not one with a murderer on the loose.
He knew where to find such a place. It was the first thing that had come to his mind, but it might be perfect. "I may have a solution."
"What is it?"
He was a bit hesitant about revealing it already, however. "You'll see. I'll have to make some inquiries first, though, and I'll need to come with you." He had to think of good arguments first before he could tell her about it, arguments she could not find fault with.
"Oh," he said as an afterthought, picking up his pen again. He pulled a grave face. "I told the policeman downstairs that if you felt like ignoring my orders again, he should tell you to come and inform me of that personally."
To his surprise she began to laugh. "I like your sense of humour, Detective Chief Inspector Scott. He would not dare! I frighten him. However, I hope the young fellow told you why I had to leave the room and I hope that after conducting all the interviews you're able to imagine the general atmosphere in that room, and why I had to leave." She came to stand before him, her hands on her hips. "Believe me, if I had wanted to ignore your orders I would not have asked your permission to leave. I would have told you after my return."
"Do you think there would have been any need to? I would have driven right behind you." He could play that game too, even though he did not place his hands on his hips.
Her eyes widened. "That sort of nonsense pollutes the environment. We would have carpooled. I would have spotted you before I was on the road and I would have suggested that you park your car. Men have this objection against driving behind a woman, you know. You would have succumbed to your primitive urge to overtake me even before the first twist in the driveway and I would have seen you."
"Never heard of a rear view mirror? That first twist is after about half a mile of open country. There is no way I would have got into the car with someone who doesn't even know she has a rear view mirror."
"Primitive. I rest my case."
He folded his arms. "You lost. That's why you rest your case."
"No, I said before the first twist, not at the first twist. It might have been the moment you drove off."
He could reply something to that. "How on earth could you allow me to get into my car? Weren't you looking?"
She made an impatient movement with her hands. "I'd like to end this discussion -- right now. It's just too ridiculous for words that you assume that you occupy such an important place in my thoughts that I would actually be looking over my shoulder during everything I do just to see if you are not following me."
"If you were trying to evade me because you hadn't asked my permission, it seems logical that you would." He smiled.
"That is a very superior smile," she chided when she could not think of anything else to reply. "You have not met me properly yet if you still dare to do that." He frustrated her. She was usually better able to stand her ground. With very little effort she could frighten people and they stayed away.
"We'll see about that. I wonder if you'd still dare to say such things after you've met me properly," Scott said politely. If her words had as much value as his, they ought to get along perfectly. But she was not a lady who gave in easily, was she? She would not let him be. It unnerved him that he had got caught up in a battle of wills, especially with a suspect. He should keep his distance.
"But Sir…" said Randall when she was confronted with the plan. Her boss could never plan on accompanying every suspect out of town. He would have no time left to run the investigation. It should not be allowed.
She knew he would not do this for every suspect, but he should not be showing such a preference for Miss Maxwell. Of all the suspects it figured that she was the one who needed a special favour. Randall wondered if the woman had sensed that Scott's partiality was something she could take advantage of.
She wondered if the young police officer in the hall had told Scott the same story he had told her. She had of course gone to inquire what exactly had happened when Scott had failed to tell her more than the basics. Her boss was a brave man to face the vixen who had nearly knocked the policeman onto the ground -- if the vixen had indeed done that. She did not think Margaret Maxwell had to resort to physical intimidation to have her way. A few well-chosen words would suffice. Even to the DCI. She shook her head in disbelief.
"Yes, Sergeant?" His mind was made up. None of Randall's doubts could alter that. Besides, a lengthy chat with Miss Maxwell was bound to teach him some more about the other guests. She was a keen observer with a quick mind. It would also be useful.
Randall wanted to bring up that the lady was a suspect, an unlikely candidate for the murder, but a suspect nonetheless. A look at Scott convinced her not to do it. He knew what she had wanted to say and he did not want to hear it. She sighed. "I'll phone if anything odd comes up, sir."
That was what he had wanted to hear. "Put the locals to work in the meantime, Randall."
The two detectives had taken their lunch together in the study. Nobody knew whether they were really working or only keeping their distance and nobody except the waiting Margaret really cared. The others would have felt too observed.
Scott had briefed Randall and the local policemen on what they should do while he was away and they had had to make a few phone calls. Things had to be checked with various phone companies and banks. Someone had to question the gardener too. He might have seen something suspicious in the grounds.
While waiting until the Inspector found the time to accompany her, Margaret grew quite bored. She had no time to start anything new because he might come for her any second, yet it might take so long that she would have to do something anyway.
The guests were not allowed to leave -- or kindly but unmistakably ordered not to -- and lying by the pool seemed the only option if she did not want to set herself apart from the other guests. If she spoke too much to the police, the others might think she was a spy and she was merely an observer.
She spread her towel across a sun bed and made herself comfortable. She could be dressed relatively quickly, for she had brought all her things with her already. There would be no delay when the Inspector finally appeared and he should not leave it too long, for her skin did not allow for unlimited sunbathing. Neither did her disposition.
"No book?" Edwin asked lazily. She usually had to occupy her mind in some way and she could not just lie still the way the rest of them could.
He was the one she could bear best of all. Anna was all right, but Poppy and Sebastian bordered on the insufferable. Edwin and she went back a long way, ever since they had presented a programme together. "What are you up to, Edwin?" she asked softly, instead of answering his question.
She had not been told whether she could let the rest know she was allowed off the premises, under close supervision of the DCI himself, but definitely off the premises. Perhaps he would not want her to spread that news, as the others might put in requests to be escorted as well. Would he escort them? Part of her wanted that question to be answered with a definite no, but on the other hand such a favour made her uncomfortable.
Edwin was after something, but what? She did not think he was a murderer, but he was devious nevertheless.
"Me?" he asked, presenting a perfect image of charm and innocence.
"Remember that I know you. Neither the innocence nor the charm work on me." She was immune to either, in most men but especially in Edwin.
"Don't I know that, Maggie! What do you think I'm up to?" he teased, turning onto his side in order to see her better and to keep his eyes out of the sun.
"I have my suspicions." It might have something to do with Arthur's fabulous scheme. Margaret could put two and two together. Even though Arthur had not told her everything, the concept had sounded perfect for Edwin and she could not imagine that he did not know about it yet, especially since he had now hooked up with such a rotten girl as Poppy, the proposed star. Arthur had to have approached him the way he had approached her, especially because she had not expressed any interest in the show and he would have needed another candidate. Arthur had a good nose for these things.
"Are they good? Or bad?"
"What do you think?" They were bad -- they usually were.
"Knowing you, Maggie, they'll be bad. Give me the moralistic treatment, sweetie. I love it when you do that to me." And he loved making Poppy jealous. He had already seen her lift her head a little and from behind her sunglasses she was probably glaring. Edwin Symonds belonged to no one except himself. He had the right to say anything to any woman.
"I'm older now. I've realised that the moralistic treatment only makes you more worse." She had been quite vehement in the past, but at some point she had given up. It was no use. Hers was only one of the many truths that existed in this world. Edwin had his own.
"I may sleep with others, but I only care for you, Maggie." He knew what ticked her off. It always had and it still worked. He could see that and he enjoyed it.
Margaret was not impressed. "We both know that the only person you care about is yourself. Tell me why you think that such a line should convince me?" She was genuinely curious whether anyone ever fell for it. She would never.
"Doesn't everyone like to hear that another loves them madly?"
"Not really. It's amusing when it's not true, but if it were true I'd hate to hear it. It always comes from the ones you don't want to hear it from." Margaret chuckled. Losers tended to favour such lines. She never took them seriously.
"It may be useful even then."
"That's where we differ." She would never take advantage of an admirer. Edwin did it all the time. She could see Poppy's assets, but Clarissa's? Clarissa was not there, so it was difficult to study her. Margaret had never really paid much attention to her. After discovering Clarissa was born as Ethel she had always looked a bit mockingly at the other woman.
Scott and Randall had checked Arthur Moss' computer in the man's presence. Moss had indeed sent the emails he had mentioned. Theoretically he could have taken a few minutes off to visit Hargreaves' room, but for the remainder of the time he had been busy. Emails, some referring to his phone conversation, had been sent intermittently until close to seven o'clock. It appeared as though he had spoken the truth.
There was one more computer to check. Randall was stunned when her boss opened the door to Miss Maxwell's room without hesitating. "Sir!" He could not do this, not without her knowledge.
"What's the problem?" he inquired, pretending not to know.
"She's not here!"
"So I see," he answered after looking around the room unnecessarily. He knew she was by the pool. He had seen that from one of the windows. "We need to look into her computer. She said we could."
"She did not say we could do so without her." As far as Randall was concerned they could only be allowed to see the files that proved Margaret had been using the computer, nothing else. It was none of their business what else she used her computer for.
He did not reply to that, but switched the laptop on. He watched the screen as it booted up, not caring what Miss Maxwell might say if she came in.
Margaret proved to be a disorganised computer user at first sight, but an easy one to spy on. All her documents were saved in the same folder and they all bore mysteriously short titles, either nouns or names. The most recently saved was Suspicions.doc, but he did not look into it, tempting though it was. It could only be connected to the investigation, but not to her alibi.
Some of the files that had been saved in the critical period yesterday had second versions to which the number two had been added in the file name and those versions had been last saved today. He could see that she had obviously expected him to check and he admired her solution. She would have been able to continue working on them today without disturbing the evidence.
Ailsa.doc had been saved at 16:35. He wrote down the time. "See that she must have got here at least at 16:30. It takes a few minutes too boot the thing up and I suppose it would also have taken some time to edit the file or create it."
"It's a very small one, though," Randall observed. It would not have taken that much time.
It was followed by Maggie.doc at 16:44 and Party.doc at 16:49. He noted those two filenames and times down as well. "Remember that she said she took a bath. Would it have been ready by now?" It had been over twenty minutes since coming in. There was a gap here until the next file had been saved. Arthur.doc had been saved at 17:31, a large file. She might have bathed in the meantime.
"Did she bathe for half an hour?" Randall asked. "Or did the Arthur file take her a longer time to work on?"
"There's an Arthur2.doc," Scott noticed. "It's not much bigger than plain Arthur." But that of course did not mean a thing. He did not see why she could not have bathed for half an hour. One did generally not fill a bath to sit in it for five minutes only and dinner was at a quarter past seven. She had had plenty of time.
"So between roughly 16:50 and 17:30, Margaret was in or around the bath. When did she hear those sounds? Was that before or after her bath?"
Scott suddenly came up with another option. "Or did she get in the bath to block them out?" He wondered if one heard less in the bathroom. It seemed plausible, if the door was closed. That would mean the activity in Clarissa's room had taken place before five o'clock. He still had to ask Margaret about the time it had occurred.
He glanced at the next file in the list. Story.doc had been saved at 18:54 and it was a large file. After this, only three small files had been saved, the last of which at 19:00 precisely. "These files do not prove that she stayed here all this while. There's an hour and a half unaccounted for." Yet if it was a story she had been writing, it might be likely that she had spent a long time on it before she saved the latest version.
"And wet towels, sir?"
"Wet towels?" He looked at Randall uncomprehendingly.
"I forgot this isn't a hotel, but wouldn't the staff pick up the towels? We could ask. If she didn't take a bath, her towel wouldn't have been wet."
"It would dry very quickly in this weather, especially if she cared to hang it out." If a chamber maid had picked it up in the morning it would have been dry already. "Didn't Moss say she emailed him? How do we get into her mailbox?" Scott began to click on icons.
"You can't do that!" Randall was shocked again. "That's her private correspondence. Do we really know that it has any bearing on the case? She might file a complaint."
"Send her to me if she complains. I'm not going to read it. I just want to see when it was sent, just like we did with Moss." He was pleased to find Margaret did not use webmail, but that he could easily access her mail. The inbox did not interest him, so he closed it, mostly so Randall would see he was handling this appropriately. He wanted to see her outbox.
Margaret was an active emailer. She had sent several emails that morning, but he skipped those. He also ignored the ones sent late the night before. Only the period between four and seven should hold his interest. He was pleased to see that she had been sending out emails during this time too, but the split screen that allowed him to read what she had sent was less pleasing to him, because of Randall's reaction. Fortunately an innocent email was displayed in the bottom half.
An email with an attachment and Party! as subject line had been sent out twice, at 16:50 and 16:51. He could guess that Party.doc, created at 16:49, was the attached file. A second later he noticed that it had been sent a third time, at 17:07. That was strange, if she had been in the bath at that time. He could not resist clicking on it to see if there was any mention of the bath.
Sorry for the quick note, but I was in the bath & just remembered I had to send you this. Further info is in the attachment. M.
"Sir," Randall said disapprovingly, but the damage was done. They had both read it.
Scott shrugged. "She was indeed in the bath." He almost sounded happy.
"You cannot put in your report that you checked a suspect's private mail without her knowledge to clear her." Or could he? Randall wondered about it. They could check phone bills too.
He ignored her again. "She cannot have left the room between 16:51 and 17:07. Or at least, she could not have had much time to do so." But that still left them the frighteningly large gap between 17:31 and 18:54.
Scott scrolled to the other emails. 17:32, 17:46, 17:47, 17:52. He began to be more reassured, especially when he continued. 18:02, 18:10, 18:15, 18:38. The last one, 18:51, was one with a large attachment and Finally finished as a subject line. 18:38 had been Almost finished.
It did not look as though Margaret Maxwell had left her room. That was a pleasant conclusion to reach, especially for Scott.
The DCI was not trying to find out who did it, but that Margaret Maxwell had not done it. Sgt Randall shook her head in dismay. She had always worked together perfectly with her superior, but he was not showing his most professional side right now.
She wondered what would change now that he seemed convinced that Ms Maxwell could not have done it. Perhaps he would approach the case from the proper angle -- if the woman did not distract him by wanting time off again.
She had nothing against Margaret, really she did not. In fact, she had quite liked the other woman's quick tongue so far and some of the opinions she had voiced.
So much for Scott's warning that she ought to see celebrities as suspects, though. He was not really taking his own advice himself.
Margaret had not been able to pry any information loose from the taciturn Inspector after he had come to fetch her. She suspected he had some safe house or elderly WPC to host her little girl, about which she could have asked directly. There was no fun in that, though. She preferred to find out another way.
She gave him some covert glances. He had changed out of his suit into more comfortable looking jeans and a shirt with short sleeves, which had changed his appearance somewhat. When he was not questioning anyone, he turned out to be quite silent. But as he also turned out to be quite good-looking, she did not mind just glancing at him occasionally.
Contrary to him, she had dressed up and pinned up her hair. He suspected that what he saw now was the image that thousands of people were familiar with. Neat, stern and untouchable -- he wondered what she was hiding from the world and why the world was not allowed to come closer. It was too stereotypical a role, but she played it well without overdoing it. Her intelligence put her a touch above the rest, but she did not mind staying up there.
"Your daughter cannot be very old," he said, after having driven for an hour in almost complete silence apart from an occasional question about the route they were taking. He had planned to chat with her, but she had not initiated much conversation and he had not known where to start. He had questions to ask her, but he had not wanted to spoil their trip by starting out with them.
Her daughter had to be young if she could not stay home alone -- not that he approved of even older children staying home alone while their parents were away. He wondered if this meant that there was no partner, no father who could take care of the child. She had mentioned babysitters, not partners.
Margaret scratched her head, postponing an answer. Perhaps she should tell him. He had battled his curiosity long enough and he proved gentleman enough to guess her to be too young for an old daughter. " It is not a story I tell often," she said hesitantly. "For her sake. But if you promise me that you'll keep it to yourself, I'll tell you some more about her."
"You don't know if I'm going to keep my promise."
"No." She looked out of the window. "I know. Most people won't keep their promises. That's why I don't usually tell them. It's not a secret. It's just an explanation I'd much rather not give, because..." Because it would tell people too much about herself.
"Does it reflect badly on you?"
"No, rather well, I suppose. That's why I don't want it to leak out. I imagine that it would be just the sort of story to be described in great detail in the press. That's all very well if it's just me, but I have a child to think of. If you had a child in your care I'm sure you'd be cautious as well."
Scott found the phrasing somewhat peculiar. "In your care? That sounds as if she isn't actually your child."
"She isn't mine, really. Biologically she's my sister's, but my sister had no time for her." She paused for a few seconds, wondering how much he would know about her family history and how much she would still have to explain. "You might recall that I had a sister who won an Olympic medal, Catriona Maxwell?" She saw him nod and continued. "A pregnancy was very inconvenient. She managed only just, but the sponsors insisted that she…well, long story, but anyway, she gave the child away. Or rather, I took it and she didn't object."
He gave her an interested look. He had read about Catriona Maxwell, her medal and her suspicious death, though he had never realised they were sisters -- or had he known this anyway in a distant corner of his brain? The pregnancy and the child were new to him. There had been no mention of a child, even though it would have been such a juicy detail in an already scandalous story.
It was hard to imagine that someone could give up her child, but it was easier to see how Margaret had taken it into her care and why she would prefer to remain silent about it. The child's real mother had died a notorious death. There would be plenty of reasons to pursue the story of the poor child, or even that of the noble aunt.
"I had to take it, even though I wasn't ready. Never make a child suffer for the character of its parents." It could still make her angry.
Scott glanced aside again. "No regrets?" She had just said she had not been ready and she looked as if she was about to become upset.
Margaret bit her lip to keep her facial expression blank. "Can't have those. Look ahead. Don't look back. There was nothing I could change. I suppose it did make me slightly cynical towards others, notably people with ruthless ambition. It doesn't often get them anywhere. My sister is a case in point." She was now dead.
He had read about that. "Was that the result of her ambition?" Scott asked.
"I suppose so. Heart failure during practice. Forbidden substances in the blood." Margaret spoke in a clinically analytical voice, as if she were discussing a stranger and not a close relative. It had happened long ago. She could distance herself sufficiently now.
"I remember that. There were suspicions." People had mentioned doping. He did not recall whether anything had been proven, but the suspicions had definitely been there. It sounded as if the suspicions had been founded. Margaret, who had to know about the suspicions, did not contradict them.
"Yes. People were appalled at my coldness. I am rumoured to have said it was her own fault. I don't remember, but I can imagine that I did. I still would. You're not meant to take that stuff. If you do, you have to be aware of the risks. Don't ever believe that there aren't any risks. You might be lucky and not have any repercussions, but… Sorry, am I ranting?" Suddenly she wondered if other people cared about the subject at all. It was not likely.
"Not at all."
"Do you think I should be more emotional about it?" She would not have much faith in a denial. It might be mere politeness, so why was she gauging his feelings? Because he did not judge, she supposed.
"I thought you were quite emotional already."
Compared to him, everyone would be, Margaret was tempted to say. She bit it back because he had not been unkind and she guessed him to be an intelligent listener, even if he did not display much of a reaction to anything. "But about losing my sister?" she pressed. People had accused her of too little feeling, when in actuality she felt quite strongly -- about the entire subject, just not about her sister in particular. They had never been close. She could not feign a bond in retrospect, nor could she feign grief.
"You did not lose your sister when she died. You had lost her long before."
Margaret turned her head towards him in recognition. "I believe you're right. Thank you. That makes me feel better."
For a brief moment he smiled and then his face resumed its usual stern expression. "Not that you need people's approval." She exposed herself on TV without caring what people thought of what she said. He did not think she was keen on always making a good impression, or to have people think well of her all the time.
"No, but I like it all the same. It's a nice counterweight when the critics are harsh. Shocking, isn't it, that I could be sensitive to approval and comprehension." She studied his profile. "I suspect there's some sensitivity under your mask as well." That smile had disappeared so quickly -- on command.
Even that remark could not elicit much of a reaction. He remained as impassive as ever. "But of course. I am only careful to whom I show it."
She studied him for another few moments. A policeman had to remain imperturbable, she supposed, but a little empathy went a long way too sometimes. She had not yet needed empathy and he had not yet needed to give it, or had he? He was subtle. "Where does your job figure in this?"
He shrugged. "I don't know precisely where."
They pulled up outside a large edifice built in red brick, looking very obviously like a school. "This is it," said Margaret superfluously, to introduce her next comment. "Do you want to wait in the car while I fetch Ailsa, or…" she left it to him to finish that sentence. He might want to get out to walk around and stretch his legs.
"Ailsa?" he asked, remembering the file on her computer.
"Indeed. Now do you?" She assumed he would prefer to stay outside. Most men would if they were not picking up a child of their own. There were too many girls there who made too much noise. "I can imagine that you wouldn't want to."
He was not daunted a by a building full of girls. "I'll come. I've never been inside such a school."
"You're kidding," she decided after a quick glance. He had to have some education going for him to be DCI at his age. "Oh well. Don't say I never offered you the escape option."
He would never say that. "That's not my style and anyway, I could always go outside should it prove too much for me."
"Or so you think," Margaret muttered as she led the way. Perhaps he merely wanted to keep an eye on her to make sure she did not leave through another exit. How ridiculous.
Inside there was a flurry of cheerful activity as parents, girls and teachers mingled while saying their goodbyes. Margaret observed the crowd for a second and then stood still. "I have no objection to your accompanying me, but I suddenly wondered what I should say if someone asks me who you are. I cannot say that I'm a murder suspect half under arrest, now can I?"
"Why not?" DCI Scott said amiably. Her train of thought amused him, though he had already been wondering what she would tell the girl about him. The truth? Or would she omit certain facts? "No one would believe it anyway." She had never been a real suspect.
"But Ailsa will never get invited anywhere again because these people are very cautious about such things and I need her to get invited to people for the holidays, because I occasionally have to work." If people thought she associated with murderers, they would not want their children to play with Ailsa. They would not care if she had not committed the murder herself. These were picky parents.
He understood. "I'll be your brother. Lead the way."
She walked on, shaking her head. Would people know whether she had a brother? If it was only herself involved here she would not care, but there was Ailsa to think about. Some of the parents here were very conservative. She understood them perfectly.
Margaret led him through the crowd and up an impressive staircase, skirting girls and fathers with suitcases. "Oh," she said and stopped halfway to look at the fathers. "Excellent." And she continued on without an explanation.
"Excellent?" Scott asked when he had caught up with her upstairs.
"We now have a man to carry her suitcase. We no longer need to throw it down the stairs. Everyone will be happy. Occasionally it took some people with it, you know."
Scott gave a brief snort, not knowing whether to believe that.
They found Ailsa in a spacious dormitory, talking to several other girls. "Maggie!" she cried, throwing herself into Margaret's arms for a hug. Only then did she notice the stranger who had followed and she gazed at him with frank curiosity. "Who's that?"
"Iain," he answered before Margaret could, observing the girl. One would never know she was not Margaret's real daughter. They looked sufficiently alike and had the same colouring. He could see Margaret cringe at the upset of her plans. If he were to play her uncle, Ailsa was supposed to know him and not ask who he was. He had just been branded as male friend of Margaret's, not a relative. "I've come along to carry your suitcase." Perhaps an assistant would be better. Would she have one? Perhaps people would believe that she did.
"Cool," she said with a giggle, accepting his explanation without questioning. "It's on my bed."
"But Ailsa, shouldn't you ask him to carry it first?" Margaret admonished. Contrary to appearances, she had taught Ailsa manners and the girl was not used to having servants.
Ailsa was surprised. "Why? He said that that was what he was for."
The parents of the other girls looked interested. Of course they did. Margaret had not expected otherwise. She tried to ignore them, but that was difficult. So much for the plan of making him her brother. The other parents would only assume it was a euphemism for lover. That was just as bad as revealing she was actually a murder suspect under close police scrutiny. She would have to tell him that Ailsa's future alone was evidence that she had not killed Nigel. How could she let the girl be abandoned? Again? She had to tell him she would never ever do anything like that.
"Quite right, Ailsa, but next time you have to ask me." Scott winked at her.
Ailsa giggled again. She liked this fellow. He was funny.
He picked the suitcase off the bed. "Ready to go?" Some parents were displaying too much interest in Margaret and her daughter and consequently in himself. He could imagine what they were thinking and he wondered if Margaret was doing the same. There was a crease in her forehead that indicated that she was not completely at ease. Something was the matter.
"Bye! Bye! Bye!" Ailsa whirlwinded across the room, taking leave of everyone.
"That's not your car, Maggie," Ailsa noted when she was being led to a strange one by the man called Iain.
"That's right. It's Detective Chief Inspector Scott's car." That was two explanations in one go, very efficient. She hoped she sounded as efficient as she felt.
"Who's that?" Ailsa had not seen anyone in uniform. She wondered if it was Iain. It had to be. He had the key, but he did not actually look as if he agreed that he was Detective Chief Inspector Scott.
"Me," he replied.
"Where's your uniform?"
"I don't have one." He put the suitcase in the boot and opened the car door for her.
"Then you are like a TV policeman and not a real one. You also don't have a panda car," she noted critically.
"Well, there's no need. You aren't a criminal. Or are you?" he asked.
"You don't need one for me. You might need one for Maggie, though," Ailsa said cheekily. She laughed at the idea.
"Is she a criminal?" he asked in an interested voice. Children were often great sources of information. She might be able to tell him things Margaret could not.
"Inspector, I notice that suddenly you speak a bit more," Margaret cut in sharply. "Ailsa doesn't know whether I'm a criminal. There's no need to pump her for information." Actually, Ailsa spoke a lot more than she usually did as well. Either she had become cheekier at school or it was all the Inspector's fault. She settled for the last, because that was easiest.
"Hee!" Ailsa snorted. "What are you afraid of? That he will arrest you?"
"By the way, Ailsa," said Scott, judging that a change of topic might be welcome. "You are not going home."
There was a cry from the back seat. "Where then? Why not? Are we going to an amusement park?"
"No. You're not going home because I'm not at home," said Margaret.
"No, you're here in the car."
"I'm on an investigation." She wondered what the DCI would reply to that, but she enjoyed provoking people now and then. What did he really think? He was accompanying her for a reason. Did he not trust her? Did he think she would not come back if she went alone?
You are?" he inquired. "I thought I was."
"I didn't do it, so I have nothing to do except to find out who did. Maybe Nigel found out Clarissa's passport actually has her down as an Ethel. She's quite keen on keeping that a secret."
He wondered how Margaret had come by that information then, but he did not ask her. He had another question. "You don't suspect Poppy?" That was the probable heiress, after all. So far he had not come across any other compelling motives. Margaret ought to share this opinion.
"Maggie!" Ailsa cried. "Where are we going?" She wondered if she was to have any say in it. Probably not. And what investigation?
"Ailsa, will you please not interrupt us when we are speaking?" Margaret said irritably. "That's not polite."
"But I don't know what you mean. Who's Poppy? Where are we going?"
"I wasn't talking to you." She had been talking to Iain. She liked how informally he had introduced himself to Ailsa. "Iain…is taking you somewhere. I don't know where." He could react to that if he liked. She had to call him that, did she not? It was how Ailsa knew him.
"It's a surprise, Ailsa, but you might like it." Even if she did not like it, she would not have much of a choice.
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