P James - Devices & Desires

Five minutes later, following Miss Amphlett down the corridor to the interviewing room, Rickards thought, And you're a cool customer, mate. No embarrassing expressions of horror and grief which always sounded insincere. No protestations of innocence. The assumption that no one in his rational mind could suspect you of murder. He hadn't asked for his solicitor to be present, but then he didn't need one. But he was far too intelligent to have missed the significance of those questions about the dinner party. Whoever had killed Hilary Robarts had known that she would be swimming by moonlight sometime after nine o'clock yesterday, had known, too, precisely how the Whistler killed his victims. There were quite a number of people who knew one of these facts, but the number who knew both was limited. And six of them had been present at that dinner party at Martyr's Cottage last Thursday night.

The interview room which had been assigned to them was a featureless little office with a view to the west dominated by the great bulk of the turbine house. It was adequately furnished for their purpose, but only just; entirely appropriate, thought Rickards sourly, to visitors whose presence was tolerated but hardly welcomed. There was a modern pedestal desk, obviously brought in from someone's office, three upright chairs and one rather more comfortable one with arms, a small side table with an electric kettle on a tray, four cups and saucers (did Mair expect them to make coffee for the suspects?), a bowl full of wrapped sugar lumps and three caddies.

Rickards said: 'What have they given us, Gary?'

Gary Price busied himself with the tins. 'Coffee bags and tea bags, sir. And there's a tin of biscuits.'

Oliphant asked: 'What kind of biscuits?'

'Digestive, Sarge.'

'Chocolate?'

'No, Sarge, just plain digestives.'

'Well, let's hope they're not radioactive. Better get the kettle on; we may as well start with the coffee. Where do they expect us to get water?'

'Miss Amphlett said there was a tap in the cloakroom at the end of the passage, Sarge. The kettle's filled, anyway.'

Oliphant tried one of the upright chairs, stretching in it as if to assess its comfort. The wood creaked. He said: 'Cold fish, wasn't he? And clever with it. Not much out of him, sir.'

'I wouldn't say that, Sergeant. We've learned more about the victim than he probably realizes. Efficient but not much liked, prone to interfere with matters outside her scope of responsibility, probably because she secretly yearned to be a scientist rather than an administrator.

Aggressive, uncompromising, intolerant of criticism. Antagonized the locals and from time to time did the station a bit of no good. And, of course, the Director's mistress, for what that was worth.'

Oliphant said: 'Until three or four months ago. A natural end with no hard feelings on either side. His version.'

'And we're never going to get hers, are we? But one thing was odd. When Mair met Mr Dalgliesh he was on his way home from here. His sister presumably was expecting him, yet apparently he didn't telephone her. It never seems to have occurred to him.'

'Shocked, sir, something else on his mind. He's just discovered that his ex-girlfriend is the victim of a particularly vicious psychopathic killer. Tends to eclipse brotherly feelings and thoughts of your bedtime cocoa.'

'Maybe. I wonder whether Miss Mair rang here to find out why he was delayed. We'll ask.'

Oliphant said: 'If she didn't ring, I can think of one reason why. She expected him to be late. She thought he was at Thyme Cottage with Hilary Robarts.'

'If she didn't ring because she thought that, then she can't have known that Robarts was dead. Right, Sergeant, let's get started. First of all we'll have a word with Miss Amphlett. The boss's PA usually knows more about the organization than anyone, including her boss.'

But any information of interest that Caroline Amphlett might have she was adept at concealing. She seated herself in the armchair with the calm assurance of an applicant for a job which she has every confidence of getting, and answered Rickards's questions calmly and without emotion except when he attempted to probe into Hilary Robarts's relationship with the Director. Then she permitted herself a moue of distaste that anyone could be so vulgarly inquisitive about matters which were not his concern and answered repressively that Dr Mair had never confided in her about his private life. She admitted that she knew Hilary Robarts made a habit of swimming at night and kept this up well into the autumn months and sometimes later. She thought the fact was generally known at Larksoken. Miss Robarts had been a strong and enthusiastic swimmer. She was not particularly interested in the Whistler except to take reasonable precautions and avoid walking alone at night, and she knew nothing about his methods except what she had read in the newspapers, that he strangled his victims. She had known about the dinner party at Martyr's Cottage on Thursday, she thought Miles Lessingham might have mentioned it, but no one had discussed with her the events of the evening and she saw no reason why they should.

As for her own movements on Sunday, she had spent the whole of the evening from six o'clock at her bungalow with her boyfriend, Jonathan Reeves. They had been together continually until he had left at about 10.30. Her cool glance at Oliphant challenged him to ask her what they had been doing and he resisted the temptation except to ask what they had drunk and eaten. Asked about her relationship with Hilary Robarts, she said that she had greatly respected her but hadn't particularly liked or disliked her. Their professional relationship had been perfectly friendly but as far as she could remember they had never met outside the power station. As far as she knew, Miss Robarts had no enemies and she had no idea who could have wished her dead. When the door had closed after her Rickards said: 'We'll check her alibi, of course, but there's no hurry. Let young Reeves sweat for an hour or so. I want to check first on the staff who actually worked for Robarts.'

But the next hour was unproductive. The people who had worked directly for Hilary Robarts were more shocked than distressed and their evidence strengthened the image of a woman more respected than liked. But none had an obvious motive, none admitted to knowing precisely how the Whistler had killed and, more to the point, all could produce an alibi for Sunday night. Rickards had hardly expected otherwise.

At the end of the sixty minutes he sent for Jonathan Reeves. He came into the room white-faced and as stiffly controlled as if it were an execution shed and Rickards's first reaction was surprise that a woman as attractive as Caroline Amphlett should have chosen such an unlikely mate. It wasn't that Reeves had a particularly unprepossessing face. You couldn't even describe him as plain if you discounted the acne. And his features, taken individually, were good enough. It was the whole face which was somehow unremarkable, ordinary, the kind of face which defeated any attempt at an Identikit image. Rickards decided that it was best described in terms of movement rather than features; the almost continual blinking behind the horn-rimmed spectacles, the nervous sucking of the lips, his habit of suddenly stretching his neck like a TV comedian. He knew from the list Alex Mair had provided that the staff at Larksoken was predominantly male. Was this the best Amphlett could do for herself? But sexual attraction was irrational anyway. Look at him and Susie. Seeing them together, her friends probably felt an equal surprise.

He left most of the detailed questioning to Oliphant, which was a mistake. Oliphant was always at his worst with a frightened suspect and he took his time extracting, not without pleasure, a straightforward story which confirmed Caroline Amphlett's account.